Just One Of Those Days
by volley
Summary: It's just one of those days in the life of our Starfleet officers when things seem to go wrong...
1. Chapter 1

This story, which is quite long and is complete, was written to meet a challenge from SitaZ: someone had to say something, someone else had to... well, I'll tell you all about it later on, not to spoil your fun!

There is humour and drama, and adventure in it, and the whole crew; I hope you'll enjoy it.

My most grateful thanks to my beta readers: Gabi2305, who helped me smooth out many inconsistencies; and Roaring Mice, who did her usual wonderful job.

§ 1 §

Oh-seven-hundred. Captain Jonathan Archer loved a good breakfast. As he watched his Second in Command, Subcommander T'Pol, unhurriedly bring a spoonful of plomek broth, the traditional Vulcan morning meal, to her lips, the Captain felt like rubbing his hands together in anticipation. Breakfast meant the beginning of a new day, with all that it implied for a ship of explorers: new adventures, new worlds to discover, perhaps even new first encounters. Archer's enthusiasm was briefly dampened as he remembered a particular adventure following a particular breakfast, with his Armoury Officer, when they had wandered into a Romulan minefield. Well, he supposed _some_ of their adventures were bound to hold a few unwelcome surprises - it was all part of the deal.

"Your scrambled eggs, Sir."

"Thank you, Manetti." Archer unfolded his napkin and spread it over his legs.

"Anything interesting on long-range sensors?" he asked T'Pol, just to make a little conversation – he had never liked to eat in silence, which, as opposed to him, was what his Vulcan officer definitely preferred.

T'Pol's spoon stopped in mid-air but not a drop of broth fell from it. One of her eyebrows shot up briefly. "As a matter of fact, yes. I was waiting for the senior staff meeting to make my report, but since you are asking... There is an M-class planet on our direct course, a few hours from our current position. Scanners have detected platinum ore."

"Ah!" Archer beamed, shaking the salt-cellar energetically over his eggs and wondering how it was possible that they had invented warp drive but not salt that actually came out of a shaker's holes. "That will make our Chief Engineer happy."

"Indeed."

"Trip's been asking me to find him some platinum."

"I believe the Commander intends to stock up on it as an exchange good, in case he needs to purchase any spare parts from alien species," T'Pol supplied. "Platinum is highly sought after in this part of the quadrant."

"So I heard," Archer commented, scowling at the salt which had suddenly decided to collaborate, pouring out in excessive quantity. Shrugging it off, he took an enthusiastic forkful of eggs and shoved it into his mouth.

"Hmph." He froze with his mouth full.

"Captain?" Head tilted gently to one side, T'Pol looked at him while a slight frown creased her brow.

From behind a hand Archer mumbled an indistinct apology. Then, pushing his chair back, he got up and hurried out of the messhall.

* * *

"Open wider, Captain, if you please," Phlox instructed, without bothering to hide his amusement. In over forty years of career he couldn't remember ever treating anybody who had injured himself eating breakfast. "Scrambled eggs, is that correct?"

"Hmm..."

It had taken a good deal of deductive reasoning to figure out what the problem could be with the moaning and gesticulating man who had bolted into sickbay a couple of minutes before, but not to understand what his morning meal had consisted of.

Archer's expression was a peculiar mix of embarrassment and irritation, and Phlox had to remind himself that he was supposed to inspect the man's mouth and not stare at his face. He focused back on his job, dabbing away a bit of blood and saliva. "Ah-ha, there! I see the culprit. It's a sizeable piece of eggshell that has become wedged in your palate. It appears to have cut your tongue too."

"Hmm!"

That second 'hmm' was low and rumbling. _Uh-oh_, Phlox thought.

"Don't move, Captain..." The Doctor reached for his tweezers and tilted the head of his patient, who was lying on a biobed, a little more his way. "And... here it is," he said with open satisfaction, turning the offending and sharp piece of shell around in his gloved hand. "Resequenced eggs seem to come with harder eggshells," he commented blithely.

Archer closed his mouth, his brow furrowed in irritation. "Chef is goin' to hear from me," he grumbled around his sore oral cavity. "We have enough surprises without him addin' any to the food."

"Now, now, Captain," Phlox said in a conciliatory tone, handing him a disinfectant mouth wash. "Everyone can make a little mistake."

Archer sat up and grabbed the glass, wincing. As he rinsed out his mouth, the Doctor watched the lines on his face gradually smooth out. He had expected nothing less of the good-natured Captain of the starship Enterprise. In the fifteen odd months he had spent with this crew, he had studied human nature and discovered it differed greatly from one individual to the next. This particular individual, he had learnt, was not one to hold grudges for very long.

Sighing, Archer hopped off the biobed. "Just thin_hh_ what might happen if Chef left a piece of e_hh_shell in a dish for some aliens we are meetin' for the first time," he mumbled, finding it painful to pronounce a few consonants. "We might end up ma_hh_ing enemies!"

"Captain," Phlox said with a low chuckle. "The likelihood of something like that happening is not very great at all." Glancing at the clock, he saw that he was running late feeding his menagerie, so he pulled his face into one of those ear-to-ear grins which, he had come to realise, were an almost infallible human repellent. Indeed...

"Maybe I'll see if I _hh_an still _hh_et something done before the eight o'_hh_lock senior staff meetin'," Archer mumbled, with a guarded look. "I'll be seein' you, Do_hh_."

"Not too soon, I hope, Captain." Phlox saw the green eyes turn even more wary, so he added gleefully, "In my capacity of physician, that is."

"Of _hh_ourse." Archer's mouth turned up into a forced smile. He triggered the door open and was gone. Phlox chuckled to himself and proceeded to feed his hungry bunch.

* * *

"Of course I left eggs in the Captain's scrambled eggs." Chef huffed, regarding the crewman before him as if he were an idiot. "What would you suggest I use to..."

"Egg_shell_, you left a piece of egg _shell_ in the Captain's scrambled eggs!" Crewman Manetti cut in with emphasis, racking his brain for the Italian word; he was sure when he was a kid he'd heard it from his grandma, when she had prepared him _uovo frullato_. If only he had put a bit more effort into learning the language...

Chef's eyes narrowed in concentration. "Egg _shell_? Shell? You don't mean _guscio_, do you?"

Manetti snapped his fingers. "That's it, _guscio_! You left a big piece of _guscio_ in the Captain's scrambled eggs, and apparently he had to resort to Doctor Phlox's care."

"Dottor Floss!" Chef pressed both hands to his cheeks, pushing his mouth into a narrow round shape which made him look like some kind of tropical fish.

Manetti shook his head at Chef's mangled version of the Doctor's name. "Phlox, the name's Phlox," he said with a chuckle. Enterprise's physician was not exactly thread-like.

"What happened then?" Chef asked nervously, ignoring the lesson in pronunciation.

"I don't know. If anyone does, that will be Commander Tucker. Ask him. In any case, he won't refuse to put in a good word for you." Manetti winked. "You know, he's friends with the Captain."

"Ah, yes, Commander Tucker." Chef glanced at the clock. "He always has breakfast at seven twenty. Five minutes! Just enough time to warm up a nice big slice of pecan pie. The man loves pecan pie."

Manetti rolled his eyes. "Even Porthos must know the Commander likes pecan pie."He watched the flustered man-in-white hurry to a refrigerated storage compartment. He opened one of its higher doors and got the pie out; he turned and he bent down, got a saucer from a lower shelf, turned again and sprang back up.

"Ouch! _Dannazione_…"

Chef glared at the door he had left open and erupted in a string of colourful expressions Manetti was pretty sure his grandma had never used. At least not while preparing him _uovo frullato._ Someone in the family obviously had, though, for he had no trouble recognising them; and for some reason they had stuck in his memory better than the parts of an egg.

"Want to end up in sickbay too?" Manetti asked the rotund Giuseppe, prying Chef's hand away from his head and inspecting the fast-forming bump.

Chef sighed.

"I don't think you'll need to visit _Dottor Floss_," Manetti reassured him. "Just put some ice on it and you'll be fine."

* * *

"Aw, Malcolm, do we have to discuss that _now_? I mean – can't a man have breakfast in peace?"

Lieutenant Malcolm Reed looked briefly away before returning narrowed eyes to Commander Charles Tucker III. "I honestly fail to see how your agreeing to spend a very reasonable amount of your working hours in the Armoury to upgrade a few tactical systems, which are – may I remind you – of vital importance to our very survival, should prevent you from having breakfast in _peace_," he said in his sharp British accent.

Trip rolled his eyes. "Because. We aren't even on duty yet. We oughtta talk about -- I don't know, yesterday's movie, or how best to convince the Capt'n that we need some shore leave... or... the _weather. _Anything but your damn Armoury!" He glanced at Reed, who was staring at him with his facial muscles hardened in a determined expression, and couldn't refrain from chuckling. "Ah, why do I even try!" he exclaimed, throwing a helpless hand up in the air. "You probably look at your waffles and see a targeting grid."

"All you need to do is say a simple 'yes'," Reed replied levelly, ignoring Tucker's gibe. "And you'll be able to give _your_ waffles your undivided attention."

"But I don't want to give my waffles my undivided attention," Trip countered with a huff. "I wanna have breakfast and a little friendly conversation. Sheesh! Is that so difficult to understand?"

"Well, then I suggest you have breakfast with the Captain," Reed said peevishly. "The man actually welcomes idle chat between a sip of coffee and a bite of toasted bread."

Trip was going to respond with a venomous retort when his eye was caught by an uncommon sight: Chef was coming his way with a big smile plastered on his face and a plate carried high on the palm of one hand, like some kind of offering to the gods.

"Commander," Chef called from a distance when he saw that Trip had noticed him, "I have something for you."

He wound his way to their table and, with a flamboyant move, made the plate circle once and land right in front of Trip. On it was a huge and fragrantly warm slice of pecan pie.

"Well, look at that," Trip said, a little taken aback by the unexpected attention and glad that the messhall was still rather empty. In a year and a half of their mission this was the first time Giuseppe had done something of the kind. He smiled back at the man, and saw, out of the corner of his eye, Reed's brow crease in a suspicious frown.

"What's the occasion - this isn't my birthday, is it?" Trip asked genuinely puzzled, turning to his friend.

"No," Malcolm answered, as he narrowed his eyes in thought. "Therefore either Chef wants to have a fling with you, or to ask you a favour."

"A _fling_... what does this mean?" Chef asked, eyeing Reed distrustfully.

"It means that..."

"Ah, nothin' important, Chef," Trip cut in. He gave Malcolm's shin a light kick under the table, which only earned him an amused grin.

Chef shuffled his feet. "Have you seen Captain Archer this morning, Commander?" he enquired in what he probably wanted to be a casual tone, but which failed miserably.

"Here we go," Reed muttered under his breath.

Trip landed him another kick – a harder one – and was rewarded with a wince. He put on one of his winning smiles for the uneasy man before him. "The Capt'n? Why, no, not yet," he replied, wondering where this was going.

"Oh," Chef said, wringing his hands. "I see." Suddenly his face crumpled. "I need your help, Commander," he murmured in a distressed voice.

"Told you," Reed sing-sang softly to the side of his raised cup. He lifted his eyebrows innocently and sipped on his tea, looking as if he had forgotten all about the Armoury upgrades and was having a great time.

Trip noticed Malcolm had wound his legs tightly around the legs of his chair. "Sure thing, Chef. What can I do for ya?" he answered mellifluously. "Need me to come fix somethin' in the galley? Just say the word." With his peripheral vision he caught the Armoury Officer's face as it darkened. This approach was more effective than a kick.

Chef's expression, on the other hand, was still rather concerned.

"No, no. It's not that," he rushed to say. "You see, I left a piece of _eggshell_ in the Captain's scrambled eggs – I don't know how that could have happened – and he got hurt and had to see Dottor Floss – Manetti told me that – and I suppose he must be mad at me, the Captain, that is, Commander, and I'd like you to, you know, check just _how_ _much mad_ he is, and tell him that I'm terribly sorry, for I would do so myself but I'm not sure he would like to see me right now, besides the fact that, depending on his mood, I don't know if I want to see _him_, and knowing that you are..."

"Woah! Wow. Breathe, man!" Trip shook his head as if to clear it, laughing heartily. Malcolm's eyes twinkled, but the man was keeping a perfectly straight face. Damn him, how did he manage such self-control? The thought of Jon running to Phlox because he had cut himself on scrambled eggs... Now he wished he _had_ eaten breakfast with the Captain this morning, to have seen T'Pol's reaction to that. Certainly better than sitting with a paranoid Armoury Officer.

"Don't worry, Chef. I'm sure the Capt'n understands that it was just a mistake," Trip offered, biting his lip to sober up. "But if necessary I'll be glad to put in a good word for you."

"Ah, I knew I could count on you, Commander," Chef said, sighing in relief and visibly relaxing.

"Is that why you brought him pecan pie?" Reed asked deadpan, tilting his head and indicating Trip's plate with his mug.

Chef frowned. "Lieutenant, are you suggesting I brought Commander Tucker pecan pie to… buy his help?"

"That is exactly what I am suggesting," Reed replied, jerking his head sideways.

Chef pulled a face. "What? Are you jealous, Signor Reed?"

"Maybe he'd like ya to have a fling with _him_," Trip mumbled around a bite of pie.

"Have a..." Chef smirked. "I'll have to ask Hoshi about that," he murmured to himself.

Malcolm returned, with interest, one of the kicks he had received before. "You can't deny that you make pecan pie much more often than pineapple cake. You definitely favour the Commander, Giuseppe." He sounded dead serious.

Chef looked at him in frozen incredulity for one long moment. "All right, all right, I'll make you your pineapple cake," he sighed eventually, shaking his head. He picked up Trip's empty plate and left, muttering something about little children.

Trip shot Malcolm a disbelieving look.

"What?" Reed said defensively. "It's the plain truth. Chef churns out so much pecan pie that one would think the warp drive runs on it."

"Actually, it does," Trip said, leaning back in his chair and placing a satisfied hand on his stomach. He smiled smugly.

Malcolm smirked in response, then sprang up. "So, Commander: are you going to give me a few hours of your precious time?"

"Malcolm, for Pete's sake!"

Malcolm grinned wickedly, tapping a finger on his watch. "Well, Trip, time to get down to business: our shift started several seconds ago."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

§ 2 §

"The planet is suitable for life. There are two large continents, one of which is rich in platinum ore." T'Pol pointed a slender finger to the picture displayed on the situation room table. "The Northern one. As far as we can tell this continent is uninhabited, although a considerable variety of fauna seems to be present."

"Any that may pose a threat?" Reed asked, immediately becoming alert.

T'Pol turned to the Lieutenant. "The largest animals appear to be the size of a wolf. Although their potential dangerousness cannot be discounted, provided we use the proper cautionary measures I would say they do not constitute an impediment to a landing mission."

"Of course not," Trip said with a grin. "I'm sure our Security Officer here is already figurin' out some of those _proper cautionary measures_."

Malcolm looked like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Across the table from him Hoshi's mouth twitched, while Travis's flashed a much less discreet blinding smile.

"Trip," Archer admonished.

The name had come out more like _Chip_ – undoubtedly a consequence of the breakfast incident. T'Pol watched Tucker and Reed exchange a furtive glance, and wondered if the ship's grapevine had already been set in motion. She returned her gaze to the situation table.

"The local fauna may not be the most crucial factor to consider, if an away team is to be sent to the Northern continent," T'Pol said calmly, certain that she would immediately regain everybody's attention. All eyes, indeed, turned to her.

She paused, and Archer immediately made a 'please continue' gesture with his hand. "Please," he mumbled encouragingly. "We're all…" He cast a quick glance at T'Pol's Vulcan ears and faltered. "You know…"

T'Pol sighed inwardly. "Meteorological conditions," she said, tilting her head and clasping her hands behind her back, "Are unstable and somewhat unpredictable on that continent. Temperatures between day and night vary considerably."

"What kind of range are we talkin' about?" Trip asked.

"Extreme. From the data I have been able to gather temperatures can rise to nearly forty degrees Celsius during the day and drop below zero at night."

"Lovely place," she overheard Reed comment under his breath to Tucker, as his eyebrows darted up.

"This and the continent's orography favour the development of heavy rainfall and storms," T'Pol added.

Trip shrugged. "We'll remember to bring an umbrella," he quipped.

Reed turned to the Captain. "Assuming we can land close enough to the mining location, we won't need to stay planet side for more than a few hours, Sir."

Archer narrowed his eyes, frowning. "_We_?" he enquired, looking in turn at his Chief Engineer and Armoury Officer.

Reed shot a look at Tucker and cleared his throat uncomfortably. "An impersonal use of the pronoun, Sir. Although I presume the landing party would include Commander Tucker, who has a direct interest in this mission." He cast another quick glace in the Commander's direction.

Tucker flashed him one of his genial grins and added, "And someone who knows about explosives and can keep us safe from the dangerous fauna." He smiled innocently. "I guess that'd be Malcolm."

Archer looked at them with a knowing glint in his eyes. "I see," he said noncommittally.

"The Southern continent, on the other hand," T'Pol continued, interrupting the three men's illogical and not so subtle interaction, "is inhabited by a warp capable species." She touched the screen before her and the display changed to show a long and narrow, irregularly-shaped land mass. Arms crossed lightly over her chest, she eyed Captain Archer, anticipating the expression of open excitement that indeed painted itself on the man's face.

"The Southern continent's climate is much milder," T'Pol went on. "It is logical to assume that it was the main reason why it was favoured for colonization over the Northern one."

Archer brought a hand to his chin. "Have the Vul_hh_ans ever made _hon'haht_ with this species?"

This was the first real sentence the Captain had spoken since the beginning of their meeting, and it became immediately obvious to everybody that his pronunciation was a little off. A surprised silence followed. T'Pol looked at her human crewmates. Ensigns Sato and Mayweather were regarding Archer with open curiosity. Lieutenant Reed, on the other hand, had lowered his head and seemed to be enthralled by the deckplating. Although perhaps he was avoiding Commander Tucker's gaze. This, after a moment, gave up trying to catch the Lieutenant's eye and turned to look unabashedly at the Captain.

"Are you feelin' alright, Capt'n?" Enterprise's Chief Engineer enquired bluntly. "It sounds as if you've got a hot potato in your mouth."

Reed raised his head abruptly and shot a disbelieving look at their outspoken colleague.

"Fine," Archer replied icily. "Go on, Sub_hh_ommnader," he prompted.

T'Pol debated shortly how much she should reveal. Soval would not be pleased but… "Not officially," she answered eventually. "Some Vulcan... outcasts – mind melders - did wander this far a few years ago. But it is not information the Vulcan High Command would… corroborate."

Archer cast her what humans would define a grateful look and heaved a satisfied breath. "I see," he said. He would no doubt find it agreeable to be able to inform Ambassador Soval that Enterprise had made first contact with a species the Vulcans had never – at least officially – encountered, T'Pol realised.

"How lon_hh_ before we're in _hh_ommuni_hh_ation range?" Archer asked, unperturbed by the odd looks coming his way.

Hoshi cleared her throat. "Approximately three hours, Captain."

An expression of concern crossed Reed's face. "May I ask what your intentions are, Sir?" he enquired. His mood had changed drastically.

T'Pol studied the Lieutenant. He was very likely anticipating that he would be needed on two fronts at the same time. Knowing his sense of duty, that would put him under considerable stress.

Archer took a moment to reply. "We'll establish _hhonhhaht_," he said at length. "That's more important. As for a mission to the Northern _hh_ontinent..."

"Capt'n, with all due respect it's equally important to stock up on some kind of exchange good," Tucker said, his own light mood all but gone. "You never know when it might come in handy. Platinum isn't easy to come across, and if we ever find ourselves in real need to purchase spare parts... We can't let this opportunity go by."

Reed crossed his arms tightly in front of his chest, looking ready to do battle. It was quite fascinating. The Commander and Lieutenant could be conniving friends one moment and stern antagonists the next. They never had to look very hard to find - what was that human expression? – a _bone of contention_.

"Sir," Reed countered, jerking his head sideways and narrowing his eyes. "We do not know what these aliens' reaction will be to our contacting them. I strongly advise that before anyone is sent on any away mission we make sure that..."

"Easy, you two." Archer raised his hands in a calming gesture.

T'Pol thought it was time to point out what she thought was an obvious fact. "Captain, it would be highly irregular to land on the Northern continent and mine the ore without the permission of this planet's inhabitants."

Archer, Tucker and Reed all turned to her, looking, in order, embarrassed, frustrated and relieved.

"Of _hh_ourse," Archer acknowledged. "Just have a little patience, _Chip_," Archer soothed his Chief Engineer. "I'll try to be diplomatic."

Tucker gave an understanding smirk. "Aye, Cap'tn."

Archer turned to his Communications Officer. "Hoshi, start hailing those people as soon as we are in range."

"Aye, Sir," the Ensign nodded, and T'Pol saw her beam with excitement, undoubtedly at the prospect of hearing a new language.

The Captain's eyes scanned the room. "Dismissed, everyone."

The senior staff began to file out of the situation room, and T'Pol noticed that Commander Tucker seemed to be making it a point to be the last one, letting everybody pass before him. It would be just like the stubborn Commander to try and once again plead his cause with the Captain.

"Heard that Chef made a special recipe for ya this mornin'," the Engineer said softly, tongue-in cheek.

She was already a few metres away, walking to her station, but her Vulcan hearing had allowed her to catch his words, which were undoubtedly intended for Archer's ears only. She slowed down just a little, repressing a little voice that said curiosity was an emotion. Archer's wry reply came only after a moment of what she could surmise was surprised silence.

"Yeah. Delicious stuff. Bitter aftertaste, though."

* * *

Six hours later Reed was standing rigidly in front of Archer's ready room desk.

"Begging your pardon, Sir, we cannot be certain of their intentions," he insisted with reined-in determination.

_The fact they sent us a history of their species from bloody Adam and Eve, and regaled us with their toothless smiles is no frigging guarantee of anything_, he silently fumed. Couldn't the Captain see that?

Archer sighed, which didn't help Malcolm's temper one bit. He hated it when the Captain made him feel as if he were over-reacting. He knew full well the man considered him paranoid. But after all, it was thanks to his _paranoia_ that Enterprise still had her full crew complement.

"Malcolm," Archer said, in that patient, fatherly tone Malcolm found possibly even more aggravating than his recklessness during first contacts. "The Naatians seem friendly and sociable; they appear genuinely happy to meet us, and sent us a whole lot of information on their culture. And – correct me if I'm wrong – they haven't yet pointed any weapons at us; which they could, if they wanted to. So I don't see anything bad in inviting a few of them over for a visit."

'_Seem, appear'… Couldn't the man hear himself? _Reed clenched his jaw. The Captain had regained the use of all his consonants, but he doubted he would ever acquire the use of a little caution. Still standing at attention, Malcolm let his gaze wander from the wall behind Archer to his face, and studied it closely. The Captain had put on an expression of stoical endurance, the one he kept for moments like these, when he wanted to make his Chief of Security feel like an obsessed maniac. Malcolm, however, didn't let it bother him. He opposed with his own famous steely Lieutenant Reed gaze.

"Captain, the Naatians can't even speak. They don't have a vocal apparatus. They communicate through gestures and expressions – not even simple ones: their faces change shape and colour. This makes it rather difficult for us to convey anything more than very simple concepts. They _seem_ friendly enough, but there is no telling what they might really be like. That story, for example, claiming that for religious reasons at this time of the year no visitors are allowed to land on their continent... well, frankly it sounds quite suspicious."

"Malcolm, you would suspect your own mother," Archer commented with a disarming smile. "It's all in the info they sent over on their culture: once a year they hold special rites of purification of the land and no foreigners are allowed to set foot on it, for they would contaminate it. I see nothing suspicious about it."

_Of course you wouldn't_. Reed felt empty and exhausted. "With all due respect, Captain, the information they sent us was written by those Vulcan melders; only God knows what they understood. Mind-melding is not what I would call a rigorous method of collecting data."

Silence followed his words, but he could see Archer was not changing his mind. He had to make a last effort; the Captain was going to place the ship at risk.

"Sir, at least postpone my mission with Commander Tucker to the Northern continent," he all but begged. "You never know when something might go wrong. I really think I ought to be on board when these aliens come over."

Archer's smile was still firmly on his face but not in his green eyes, which now showed patience beginning to run thin. "Lieutenant," he said, and Reed realised he was nearing the end of the line: the use of his rank was definitely not a good sign. "These people were kind enough to give us permission to help ourselves to as much platinum as we want. I have no intention of receiving them guarded by a Security Officer armed to the teeth. Besides, T'Pol has reported that the weather conditions on the Northern continent are likely to take a turn for the worse in approximately fifteen hours. After that, storms will be moving across the continent for the next few days. I don't want any of my crew planet side at that point. Neither do I want to stay in orbit for a week waiting for the damn weather to clear up. Commander Tucker needs that platinum and you said it yourself: it won't take long to land, plant a few explosives, collect the ore and leave. You will, in all likelihood, be back before our guests arrive."

"Captain..."

"And if you shouldn't, I am confident Ensign Müller, your Second in Command, will be able to handle the situation perfectly well," Archer interrupted him firmly. "Trip is prepping a shuttlepod. You have your orders, Lieutenant. Dismissed."

"Aye, Sir," Reed replied tautly, clamping down hard on his frustration and concern. He turned on his heels and triggered the ready-room door. _Orders are orders_, he told himself bleakly. But the Captain could be so bloody stubborn...

"Malcolm," Archer called after him as he was already crossing the threshold.

Reed turned about. "Sir?" That one word had been icy, but Malcolm couldn't hide the way he felt.

"I need you on that planet for a good reason," Archer said. His tone, by contrast, was warm and almost apologetic. "I want the mission to be completed in as little time as possible, and your expertise with explosives makes you the best person to get the job done quickly and efficiently."

Reed looked his Captain straight in the eye. "My primary job is to protect this crew," he insisted, in a last attempt to sway him.

Archer regarded him fondly, and Malcolm's mind was briefly crossed by the ridiculous image of the man throwing him a piece of cheese. "Try not to worry so much, we'll be fine," he finally told him.

It was at moments like these that Malcolm Reed almost regretted not having joined the Navy.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

§ 3 §

Chef's day was getting worse by the hour. Leaning against the central isle in the galley, he absentmindedly tossed the ration pack he had just thermo-sealed in a container where others he had prepared were already neatly stacked. Manetti had just given him the last piece of 'good news'.

"Did the Captain say what kind of meal he wants me to prepare?" he asked the Ensign, rubbing the painful bump that had formed on his head from his earlier close encounter with an open cabinet door. Normally, he would have been glad to let his creativity run wild and whip up something special for Captain Archer's guests, but today he had got up on the wrong side of the bed and didn't feel in the right mood.

Manetti shrugged. "No. But he did say to tell you that these aliens have no teeth. So watch not to cook your pasta 'al dente'," he said with a grin.

"Ha, ha. Very funny," Chef commented dryly.

"Seriously, Giuseppe," Manetti insisted. "These aliens really have no teeth. No _denti_ whatsoever. As toothless as newborn babies. So make sure you prepare something soft."

Chef's shoulders slumped. "Magnifico..." he grumbled to himself.

"And try not to add any Unidentified Hidden Objects, like in this morning's scrambled eggs."

Chef glared at the Crewman. "Get going, Signor Manetti. Commander Tucker is leaving on an away mission with Lieutenant Reed, and I prepared fresh ration packs to re-stock the shuttlepods."

Manetti picked up the container. "Special ration packs for Commander Tucker, huh?" he suggested teasingly. "Ah, but I almost forgot: he promised to mollify the Captain for you." He lifted a few of the packs, reading their labels. "Hmm, 'meatloaf and potatoes'... 'catfish and mixed vegetables'... 'Pecan pie'... and... Oh, what's this - a poor little orphan: 'Pineapple cake'. What's it doing in here?"

Chef took a couple of threatening strides, but Manetti made a sprint for the door and hurried out, laughing heartily.

* * *

"Do you revel in this, Commander?" Reed moaned. "Or is it your way of getting back at me?"

Spinning Shuttlepod One out of a barrel roll, Trip glanced back at his friend, sitting at navigation, and realised with a start that he looked greener than a Vulcan with high blood-pressure.

"Bloody hell," Malcolm said weakly. "You seem to derive perverse pleasure in making me sick as a dog." With that he wrapped an arm around his mid-section and briefly squeezed his eyes shut, looking ready to keel over.

"Damn, I'm sorry. I forgot about your motion sickness," Trip genuinely apologised, immediately slowing down and levelling the pod. "It's that I kinda enjoy gettin' that tickle in my belly," he said with a naughty grin. "I get carried away."

Malcolm groaned. "I doubt you'd enjoy it if _that_ tickle in _my_ belly pushed what's inside said belly all the way up and over the deck plating. Which you came awfully close to," he said, his voice a little steadier now that the shuttle was too.

Trip looked over his shoulder again and saw with relief that the colour on Malcolm's cheeks was slowly but surely fading into his more reassuring ghostly complexion. He offered him a contrite smirk and returned his attention to piloting the small craft through the thick clouds that now enveloped it.

"Looks like T'Pol was right about the weather," he commented thoughtfully. "These are building into storm clouds."

"They are indeed," Malcolm agreed as he peered through the windshield. "Let's not waste any time down there," he recommended tautly. "Waging war against a planet's natural elements is not my forte; besides, I could do without getting drenched."

Trip flashed him a smile. "Afraid of a little rain? Are you sure you're a true Brit?"

"The myth of England having particularly bad weather is nothing but that – a myth," Malcolm replied in his clipped accent.

Trip fought to keep the pod on course as a strong gust of wind rocked it, and heard his friend moan softly again. He wondered if motion sickness was what had kept Malcolm from following his family's tradition and joining the Royal Navy. He certainly couldn't imagine him on a ship rocked by the waves. Before long, however, all his attention was back on piloting and silence fell between them.

"The area where we'll be landin' is still a couple of hundred kilometres away," Trip announced when the flying had become smooth again. "The weather there, according to our Science Officer, should hold long enough for us to complete our mission. So cheer up, Lieutenant, I don't think you'll need a _Mac_."

"Hmm. She also said the weather on this continent was unpredictable. The two things contradict each other, which doesn't make her statements very _logical_, if you ask me."

Trip heard concern in Malcolm's voice, and frowned. "What's the matter?" he enquired, glancing back at his friend again. "You aren't really afraid to be caught in the rain, are ya?"

Malcolm huffed, shifting his eyes briefly from his console to meet his gaze. "Well, if you really must know, I think all of this is utterly ridiculous," he ranted. "We're down here risking to be caught in the sodding_ perfect storm_, while the Captain is determined to let a bunch of... _perfect strangers _on board, not giving a damn whether his Chief of Security is going to be there for the occasion. Splendid! I wouldn't be surprised if Travis were taking bets right now on who will run into trouble first."

Trip rolled his eyes. Trust Malcolm to find something to worry about. The clouds had thinned and his instruments showed clear weather ahead, so he put the shuttle on automatic pilot and swiveled his chair around. "Point number one: knowin' T'Pol, there must be _some_ logic – however obscure – behind her reasonin'. Point number two: we'll be out of here _before_ the storms hit. And point number three: we'll be back on Enterprise _before_ the Capt'n receives the Naatians," he said deadpan.

"Right," Malcolm replied likewise, looking totally unconvinced.

Trip clapped his hands on his knees and got up. "Ya know what, Lieutenant?" He went to the bench and lifted its seat up, rummaging inside the compartment beneath it. "I'm hungry."

Malcolm snorted. "Good grief, Trip. Are you certain the Doctor didn't forget one of his creatures inside you the last time you were injured? The amount of food you manage to ingest isn't normal by any stretch of the imagination."

Trip ignored him. "Chef sent freshly-made ration packs. And I happen to know from a secret source that he included pecan pie." Finding what he was looking for, he straightened up and turned, beaming. "Here it is."

"You can't be serious. That's your second piece today."

Trip just shrugged. "So what?"

"And then you have the courage to claim that you aren't Chef's favourite," Malcolm said, shaking his head.

"No, I ain't." Trip returned to sift inside the bench compartment. "And here, Mr. Reed, is the proof," he announced, raising his eyebrows and extracting another pack. "Pineapple cake."

He held it out to Malcolm, but his friend shook his head in denial this time, crossing his arms over his chest. "No, thanks," he said in a straight face, though a glint in his eyes betrayed amusement.

Trip shrugged again, grinning. "Suit yourself. It's your loss." He tossed the pack back and proceeded to open his.

A soft snort floated from his right. "I can just see you a few years from now: unable to reach over your pot-belly to tie your bootlaces," Malcolm said. "I guarantee it, if you don't change a few bad habits."

"Well, what the heck, I'll use shoes without laces," Trip replied, his grin widening in a genial smile. "I refuse to go through life without enjoyin' a few pleasures." He picked up a large piece of pie with his fork and popped it unrepentantly into his mouth.

* * *

"Sir, bear in mind that Earth's sign-language is a long shot," Hoshi said, sounding rather apprehensive. "I doubt very much that I will actually be able to hold much of a conversation."

Archer was't going to let her anxiety influence him. "Yes, yes," he replied. "But you saw on the viewscreen how very apt they are at reading and conveying facial expressions. You'll do just fine, Hoshi," he added, with a firm and reassuring nod. After all, Hoshi needed this once in a while, he told himself: a good challenge and the confidence of her Captain's trust.

Taking long strides along the corridor headed for the airlock, where they would meet a delegation of Naatians, Archer turned to check on his Communication Officer and found she was gone. He stopped abruptly and Hoshi almost bumped into him.

"Of all the species that inhabit the universe, we had to run into one without a vocal apparatus," Hoshi huffed out despondently, a little out of breath. She smirked. "It takes all the fun out of making first contact."

Archer patted her shoulder in a gesture of encouragement. "I'm sure you'll feel differently once you break the ice."

At a junction in the corridor they were joined by Subcommander T'Pol and Ensign Müller, who fell in step.

Archer wasn't very happy about Reed's Second being there. He didn't like to think that he should bend and join the club of those who saw a potential threat in every alien they met. But he felt he owed Reed this small cautionary measure. It had all happened so very fast that he felt guilt tugging at his conscience. The Naatians had accepted his invitation with what could only be surmised as enthusiasm and had wasted no time in jumping on a vessel. Literally. Here they were, knocking on Enterprise's outer hatch at barely fifteen-hundred hours, when Archer had meant for them to arrive for dinner. He felt like the old lady, the one in a bathrobe and rollers in her hair who realises her friends are already in the driveway and her cake hasn't been baked yet. Damn! He had told Malcolm he'd be back from his away mission before their guests arrived. Well – he hadn't really promised anything; if he recalled he had said _in all likelihood_. He just hoped Chef _had_ baked his cake.

"Try to be as inconspicuous as possible, Ensign," Archer told the security man, eyeing his sidearm with a grimace. Not that that would be easy: Müller was tall and well-built.

"Sir?" Müller enquired, puzzled.

Archer sighed. Reed's men were a guarantee when it came to feeling protected, but under their CO's leadership they had all become, some more some less, slightly obsessed and mistrustful, which didn't make for appreciating the subtleties of diplomacy.

"I don't want them to get the idea that we are shaking their hands just so that we can pull them off balance and make them slip on the banana skins under their feet," he patiently explained.

Müller's face drew a blank, but he nodded firmly and replied, "Aye, Sir." He fell back with Hoshi, and Archer glanced at T'Pol, who was left alone at his side at the front of the quartet. She walked with her usual composed gait, even though he was still taking long strides.

"I sent Crewman Manetti to inform Chef that our guests are arriving earlier than expected," she said, her voice wavering slightly in rhythm with her steps.

"Good," Archer replied, forcing his face into a contrived smile. Rushing had always made him nervous. He much preferred when he felt on top of things.

"Are you all right, Captain?" T'Pol enquired in a quiet enough tone that only he could hear. "You seem... upset."

"Fine. Just a little nervous, as you'd expect before a first contact," Archer replied. "I'll try and repress my emotions a little better," he added, raising his eyebrows.

Finally they rounded the last corner and were there. Archer straightened to his full height and glanced at his officers like a mother checking her children before the guests arrive. He gave a nod and T'Pol pressurised the airlock.

* * *

"Lovely," Malcolm grumbled, removing his cap briefly to wipe a sleeve across his brow. "Why worry about the sodding storms, when we didn't need a single drop of rain to get drenched." They had been walking for no more than half an hour and he seriously doubted there was an inch of his body left that wouldn't be suitable for fungal growth.

The vegetation was lush but not very tall, probably a consequence of the sharp difference in temperature between night and day. It was mostly shrubs, some of them studded with fluffy white flowers, and small trees. They had been winding their way around them while keeping an eye on their direction, which would eventually lead them to the rocky area rich in platinum ore. Trip had let Malcolm take the lead, and he now skirted a patch of flowered shrubs, keeping well away from a large pond which was probably swarming with dangerous life forms.

Malcolm swatted a couple of small but definitely alien-looking insects who had decided to get a ride on his bare arm, and reluctantly rolled down his sleeves again. "Damn heat, bloody humidity," he ranted. Stopping, he unburdened his backpack and reached for the canteen. Trip came to a halt beside him, and Malcolm glanced at him. His friend had been uncharacteristically quiet during their march. "Has your tongue dried up? An amazing feat, in this mugginess," he joked. Snorting, he passed him the water. "Here. Douse it and let me hear your distinctive drawl."

Trip blinked, rivulets of perspiration running freely down the sides of his face. He waved a hand in front of his eyes, chasing away a cloud of flying _things_ and accepted the offering. He was a sight. And he was still silent. Malcolm frowned, which sent a couple of rivulets of sweat down the sides of his own nose.

"Trip?"

Trip gave him back the canteen, together with a warm if somewhat vacant smile, and turned on his heels to head for the pond.

Malcolm's tactical mind reacted immediately. "Commander," he called out warily. "Say something." But Trip kept walking on slightly unstable legs in the direction of the water and Malcolm was left no other option than to run after him.

"Trip," he repeated, grabbing him by an arm and turning him around while his heart began to pump adrenaline through his body. All kinds of nasty scenarios had begun to form in his mind.

Trip raised his eyebrows and chuckled, the blighted man. Releasing him, Malcolm crossed his arms over his chest and shot him an incinerating glare. "I fail to see the funny side in all this," he growled. "And I would expect you to understand that it's not the time for practical jokes."

"Thought I'd take a swim. I saw fish jumpin' in that pond," Trip said with one of his winning grins.

The words were no apology, nor could be said to voice any relevant consideration or profound thought – they hardly made any sense, in fact – but at least Trip had finally spoken, and Malcolm sighed, relief chasing away his anger. "May I remind you it is not for its recreational resources that we have come to this blasted planet?" he said with a small smile.

Trip giggled. "I feel so blessedly drunk," he said cheerfully.

"Well, you know it doesn't take much to make you feel that way," Malcolm joked, trying to ease his anxiety. "It must be the heat," he added, pushing the canteen into his hands again. "Come on, drink some more," he all but ordered.

Trip peered inside its narrow mouth. "Ya sure there's water in here?"

"Come on, Trip. Be serious for a change. Drink." Malcolm waved a hand to hurry him. "We must get going again, we're still only half way there."

"Aye aye, Sir."

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

§ 4 §

They had smiled at each other profusely, and Archer had found himself wondering if Naatians found the Humans' smiles, with their two rows of teeth, threatening. He certainly found the Naatians' smiles odd in an unsettling way: these people indeed had no teeth, and their... well, gums – the word sounded perfectly fitting for the _gummy_ flesh that replaced the apparatus more traditionally found in people's mouths – were bulging and shiny, as if swollen. If one concentrated solely on their smiles, it was like looking at overgrown teething babies.

There were four of them, all very similar in aspect. Shiny brown scales in place of hair, one-piece suits adhering to their fit bodies, a bit in the style of Subcommander T'Pol's outfits. Curves and bulges were in all the right places, as well as in some of the wrong ones, at least by human standards. Indeed, if one went by what their garments let see of their anatomy it was impossible to tell what gender these four aliens were.

While they sipped on an aperitif, and while Hoshi, with the help of some creative use of sign language, was doing her best to introduce their guests to Enterprise and their mission, Archer took Phlox, who had joined them, aside, and ventured to ask his opinion: the doctor gleefully launched into a lengthy and detailed medical explanation of why he supposed Naatians were both genders at the same time, making Archer repeatedly curse his curiosity. He was already not very hungry, given the hour, and Phlox's descriptions were definitely not the best of appetizers.

The most extraordinary feature of Naatians, however, was their faces: not particularly finely chiselled, they were incredibly mobile, having the remarkable characteristic of being able to change shape and complexion. It all had to do with the necessity to communicate through signs and expressions, presumably; but seeing someone before you turn from anaemic-white to purple or green, while his features moved from squarish to oval, to trapezoid, and back again, was striking to say the least. Archer had tried not to stare but the sight, if slightly disquieting, was truly magnetizing.

The tour of the ship had gone fairly well. The Naatians had clapped their eight-fingered hands on many occasions, which Hoshi had surmised being a sign of admiration; stomped their feet to convey, in all likelihood, hilarity; jerked pear-shaped heads sideways as a way to ask more detailed explanations; and become almost all the colours of the rainbow: bright orange in the launchbays; various shades of blue in Engineering; radioactive green in sickbay. Not that they – Hoshi included – had any idea what that meant.

They had passed in front of the Armoury, but of course that was off-limits. Archer had seen a couple of them look at its door as their faces turned V-shaped. The fact had not gone unnoticed with the ever-vigilant Müller, who had tensed up and virtually shooed them away, disguising the action as a gesture intended to steer them in the right direction. Archer had glared at the security man, belatedly remembering that the Naatians were probably experts in reading one's facial expressions. Of one accord their complexions had gone grey, for reasons Archer didn't yet understand.

So now they took their places around the table in the Captain's mess: Archer, T'Pol, Hoshi, Phlox, and the four Naatians. Müller was unhappily stationed outside – _just_ outside – ready, as he had reminded Archer in an ominous low voice, to jump in, in case of need.

Naatian the Tall – as Archer had baptised him (uhm, her?) because of his, well _its_ towering height – was the most loquacious of the four, so to speak. Presently it was in the middle of a lengthy communication: arms flinging, fingers snapping, shoulders dancing the cha-cha, face moulding into the most absurd shapes. Archer was having a hard time keeping a straight face. The man... woman... – whatever – was offering a great show and only the proximity of his composed Vulcan Second in Command kept him from chuckling openly.

Hoshi cleared her throat. "He is saying, Sir, that Enterprise is a rather large vessel – at least I think that's what he said." Her eyebrows creased in slight uncertainty.

"Uh, yes," Archer replied, shifting his gaze from Naatian the Tall to Naatian the Curious. "She is the largest of our fleet. And the fastest. We are quite proud of her."

Hoshi, who, quite predictably, had started to enjoy the challenge, stopped in the middle of what looked more like a tribal dance than a simultaneous translation and turned to Archer with a puzzled look in her almond-shaped eyes. "_Proud_, Sir? How am I going to render that?"

"Ah, I wouldn't know Hoshi," Archer replied raising his eyebrows. "How about puffing up your cheeks and getting some weird colour on them?"

The comment made Hoshi burst into a giggle, which she quickly restrained, while Phlox's mouth curved into one of its improbable grins. T'Pol's expression, by contrast, was the subtle but still recognisable Vulcan version of irritation. Archer immediately regretted the gibe, feeling a little embarrassed. But – goodness – this felt more like the circus than a first contact.

Just then Manetti came in. "If we may, Sir, we are ready to serve the hors d'oeuvre."

"By all means, Crewman."

Naatian the Suspicious regarded the small flans with narrowed eyes. His face turned the colour of mud and pulled into a slightly trapezoid shape. Naatian the Curious picked its plate up and brought it to its nostrils, smelling the food noisily. Archer decided they needed a little gentle push, so he smiled his umpteenth smile, got his fork and opened the dances.

* * *

Malcolm was first aware of his nose itching as they skirted some, well, _reedy_ grass which grew on the east shore of a big expanse of water. They were already in sight of their destination and he had taken the direct path to it, which passed between a field of those white-flowered shrubs and the lake. He had eyed the fluffy blossoms with slight dread, but the other route, in addition to being longer, would have meant going around the water through the dense grove of trees which grew on the other side of it, and after T'Pol's report on the local fauna and her recommendation that he be careful he had deemed it less risky to take his chances with the flowered shrubs. Now he was regretting it deeply. _Damned, bloody, sodding allergies_, he silently cursed, losing his fight against the first sneeze.

"Etchoo!"

"Bless ya."

"Th..." Malcolm closed his eyes and held his breath, willing to shut the door on the next impending sneeze and send it back to wherever it was coming from. "Thank you," he managed at length. He shrugged. "Allergies," he muttered as an explanation. Stopping, he went through his pockets and their usual supply of handkerchiefs in search of a dry one. He was more likely to find a gold-fish or two.

"I just needed that, a lovely allergic reaction, to fully enjoy myself on this paradise of a planet," he complained with a sarcastic huff. "Now all I can ask for is to run into some of that local fauna, the kind we ought to take _precautionary measures_ against, and – voila – the fun will be complete."

Settling for a hankie that was just damp, as opposed to soaking wet, he blew his nose. Now his eyes were watering too, but – what the hell – join the club: so was the rest of his body.

Trip, who had maintained his strangely meditative mood, let out a dreamy sigh. "You can be a real pain in the ya-know-what, Loo-tenant. My, ya fussy! Might be a bit hot'n humid, I'll grant ya that, but just look around: not a cloud in the sky, beautiful lake, gorgeous cotton-like flowers..."

His Southern drawl had the slurred quality that Malcolm associated with a drink too many, and he began to seriously wonder if the canteen had actually contained only plain water or... Nah! He shook his head to clear it of the absurd idea. He too had drunk from it. And he felt just fine. Well, not quite, but that was another story.

"A pain in the you-know-what?" Malcolm countered. "Let me tell you, Trip: without th..." He pinched his itchy nose. "...Without this fussy pain in the... Etchoo!...you-know-what, your _p_recious _p_latinum would remain where it is." A few drops of something – sweat, saliva, he couldn't tell – flew off, propelled the explosive _p's_ of his irritated British accent. They hit Trip in the face, making Malcolm feel mortified, but the engineer just wiped them off unperturbed.

"Yeah, well, can't but agree with ya," he said, shrugging; then he yawned. "Tell ya what: you go get it, Loo-tenant. I feel totally lazy."

"You _wh-at_?"

But Trip just stretched, dropped to the ground and laid back on his elbows, crossing his legs. "This place reminds me of…"

* * *

The hors d'oeuvre had _not_ been a hit. Definitely not a hit, Archer could tell as much. There is something universal in the facial expressions denoting dislike. The thick asparagus soup, fortunately, had seemed more to their taste, and the Naatians had sucked it up noisily, shaping their mouths like the nozzles of as many vacuum cleaners. Even T'Pol had not been able to repress an impulse of distaste: she had frozen briefly, which, to the trained eye, was the equivalent of a smirk of disgust. Luckily, their guests had been too busy to notice it.

Now, as they waited for the next course, conversation, or rather, communication, lulled – at least _inter-species _communication. The Naatians were communicating plenty among themselves, and Hoshi was at a loss translating for her Captain and fellow officers.

"I'm sorry, Sir," she apologised tensely. Archer could hear a hint of anger beside the frustration in her voice. "They gesticulate too fast, I'm still learning... And I suspect they are using abbreviations, like a sort of dialect."

"How nice of them," Archer muttered through gritted teeth, careful to keep his mouth shaped into what was turning out to be a perennial smile. He'd probably have to undergo surgery to be able to straighten his face again, after this first contact was over.

T'Pol put down her spoon. "They may want to keep some of their comments to themselves, Captain," she said softly, with her usual poise. Her eyebrows shot up briefly. "Different cultures have different codes of politeness."

"No kidding," Archer murmured back levelly. "If I had slurped my soup like that my mother would have killed me."

"An illogically harsh punishment," T'Pol commented.

Archer's brow creased. "A figure of speech. Don't Vulcans have _any_?" he asked, hurrying to add, "Never mind."

Breaking a bite off his bread stick in frustration, he chewed on it with passion. He'd had enough of letting these aliens speak among themselves and ignore them. He picked up the carafe. "Tea?" he asked loudly with a glance at Hoshi that meant _no need to translate this_.

Naatian the Haughty turned to him – and the colour of a rotting persimmon – just as Manetti entered balancing a serving plate loaded with omelettes. The crewman lowered it to serve them out, but as soon as the Naatians set eyes on the food they jumped to their feet of one accord, the Haughty knocking Manetti off balance. A couple of omelettes went sliding off the plate, ending with a spat on the white tablecloth. The aliens took a step back.

What happened next was going to haunt Archer's dreams for a long time. As he too rose, unsure of what to do, the four Naatians shaped their hands into guns, like children playing war. Then, just like children playing war, they fired.

He wouldn't need surgery after all: Archer's smile was gone in an instant as he watched T'Pol, Phlox and Manetti fall one after the other unconscious to the ground.

* * *

"Summertiiiime, and the livin' is eeeeasy..."

Malcolm blinked. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be happening. It must be his allergies, giving him hallucinations. He obviously wasn't on a planet in thirty-some degrees' heat and ninety percent humidity, and that wasn't really Trip stretched out on the ground, singing at the top of his lungs. And just that tiny bit off key, one might add, to make the experience subtly excruciating.

"...Fish are jumpin', and the cotton is high..."

"Bloody hell."

Malcolm's head was throbbing painfully and he was beginning to feel positively rotten.

"Trip, quit joking, I'm not feeling all that well," he moaned, pressing both hands to his temples. They felt a bit hot, but then again, they weren't exactly in the Arctic.

"Oh, your Mama's rich and your Pa is good lookin'..."

Malcolm closed his eyes. "Neither," he muttered in despair, reaching blindly for another hankie. "And anyway I could swear it was the other way round."

He opened his eyes again in time to see Trip's turn up and sideways in thought. The Engineer shrugged.

"Oh, your Daddy's rich, and your ma is good lookin'…"

"Not particularly."

Crouching, Malcolm shook his friend's shoulder weakly. "Stop it, please," he begged. "This is no time for… for _this_, whatever it is."

Trip held out a shaky hand towards Malcolm's watery eyes. "So hush, little baby, don't you cryyyyy..."

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

§ 5 §

Müller stopped pacing and turned to the sound of the door swishing open. He heaved a sigh of relief. He'd had enough of wondering if everything was well with the Captain and the others. Not that he really expected anything to happen, but being the person currently in charge of the ship's security, he felt the weight of responsibility on his shoulders.

Archer appeared, wearing a funny expression on his face. "Sorry, Ensign," he murmured.

"It's fine, Sir. It wasn't a very long dinner, actually," Müller replied, straightening his posture. Then he noticed the stance of the tall alien behind Archer, and the Captain's words suddenly seemed to take on a different meaning. But no, it was a _hand_. Well, shaped like a _gun_. Still, it was a _hand_. Though it was _pointed_ at the Captain's back... Lieutenant Reed's angry face flashed unexpectedly across Müller's mind and he almost jumped out of his skin.

He made to reach for his phase pistol, but Archer stopped him. "I wouldn't do that, Ensign," he said firmly.

Müller's eyes went wide with surprise and worry. "Captain?" he stuttered.

"I'm afraid these aliens' fingers are damned effective as weapons," Archer said. He took a few steps forward and glanced grimly over his shoulder at his private mess, where Müller could now see Hoshi being similarly threatened and the bodies of their fellow crewmembers slumped on the floor.

"Are they…?"

"Stunned," Archer hastened to reassure him. "I checked."

The tall Naatian pushed the Captain unceremoniously forward, and the others followed the two out into the main mess hall, which was conveniently empty because of the mid-afternoon hour. Hoshi looked worried and confused.

"What do they want?" Müller asked tensely, backing as the group advanced.

Archer smirked. "No idea, but I suppose we'll find out."

But Müller wasn't going to find out any time soon, for the next moment he was sent to join his fellow crewmembers in dreamland.

* * *

"Commander Charles Tucker III, Chief Engineer on the Starship Enterprise."

Malcolm narrowed his eyes and held up a hand, placing it in front of Trip's nose. "How many fingers are these?"

Trip's eyebrows shot up and his head jerked back so that he could focus on Malcolm's hand. "Five," he replied after a moment.

Malcolm opened his mouth to speak but was cut off.

"Three." A smile lit up Trip's sweaty face. "Why are ya askin' me all these dumb questions? I don't remember bangin' my head any time recently."

"Because your caterwauling and juvenile behaviour have me wondering about your well-being," Malcolm sputtered, grabbing his arm and pulling him forward. He had lifted the man bodily up to his feet at the price of a full minute of agonising throbbing in his skull, and now he was eager to resume walking the last uphill stretch to their destination.

"What's wrong with me singin'?"

"Plenty."

"Well, you're a real sulker, Malcolm, ya know that?"

Malcolm bit his tongue, holding back a nasty reply. His head was killing him, no point getting more aggravated than necessary.

Trip didn't seem quite himself, but except for a more accented slur and this sudden and thoroughly annoying desire to show off his vocal ineptitude the man was fine. No fever, no nausea, no headache, no disorientation. He had answered all his questions correctly. He was just acting a little… well… _drunk_ was the only word that came to his mind. The caves were no further than a few hundred meters now. They were so close that it didn't make sense calling off the mission. _Let's get this done and over with_, he thought doggedly.

Trip's defiant voice soared again. "One of these mornin's you're gonna rise up singin'…"

"Trip, p-lease!"

"Then you'll spread your wings, and you'll take to the sky…"

"I'd rather use a shuttlepod."

"But 'till that mornin' there's a nothin' can harm you…"

"Wrong, there is: your bloody braying."

"With Daddy and Mammy standin' by…"

Malcolm groaned. "You're not exactly a Pavarotti, Mr. Tucker," he muttered as he trod on, trying to ignore his splitting headache, dripping nose, burning eyes, soaking uniform, plus the cursed heat and the gut feeling that this mission was only going to get worse.

"A what?"

"Never mind."

Trip eyed him. "Oh, I love to climb a mountain…"

"Dammit."

"And to reach the highest peak..."

Suddenly Tucker stumbled on a rock and grabbed onto Malcolm to stop himself from falling. They both swayed. Before Malcolm knew it Trip had taken his left hand in his and was pressing his sweaty cheek against him.

"But it doesn't thrill me half as much as dancin' cheek to cheek…"

* * *

"Sir, I'm not sure." Hoshi's voice wavered with apprehension as she warily watched Naatian the Suspicious repeat a series of gestures. Its face had become elongated and taken on a sickly hue, which did nothing to improve its appearance.

Through his anger and concern Archer felt sorry for his Communication Officer. "Can't you even give me a rough idea? No one expects you to provide a state-of-the-art translation here, Hoshi."

Their walk through the corridors had arisen no suspicions in the crewmen they had met. The aliens had formed a tight group around Hoshi and him, and no one had noticed the pointed 'weapons' behind their backs. But their destination had been clear in Archer's mind right from the start: the Armoury. And now they were in front of its door.

"I'd guess…" Hoshi hesitated. Suddenly steeling herself, she said, "Captain, my best guess is that he wants you to order everybody out of it."

Archer grimaced, but the Haughty meaningfully pressed his finger against Hoshi's side, and he found himself nodding quickly, hoping these aliens understood the gesture correctly. He raised a hand to the comm. link near the Armoury door, and pressed it open.

"This is Captain Archer. We are facing a hostage situation. I need you to evacuate the Armoury."

* * *

"When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie that's amoreeee…"

_Good Lord_, where had Trip heard such tunes? They must be at least two-hundred years' old. Apparently the man not only liked old films but was also a connoisseur of vintage songs.

"When the world seems to shine like you've had too much wine that's amoreee…"

'Too much wine' is really what Trip sounded like he'd had. Malcolm massaged his throbbing temples and tried to shut his friend's voice out. They had finally stopped at the entrance of a large cave, and he had immediately unburdened his backpack and got down to prepare the charges to mine the ore. Trip, on the other hand, had gone to sit with his back against a big boulder and had continued undisturbed on his revival of antediluvian tunes. Malcolm had decided to let him be, since there seemed to be nothing he could do to stop him. Besides, he wouldn't want him anywhere near explosives, in the state he was.

A breeze had picked up, and from his crouched position Malcolm lifted his head and closed his eyes briefly against it, enjoying the soothing sensation on his sweaty, burning skin. He had felt a few shivers down his spine and was beginning to fear he was perhaps developing a slight fever. The thought was a bit frightening. It meant his allergic reaction was more serious than he had anticipated. He looked up at the sky and felt another twinge of concern: a few clouds were visible now in the far distance. The storms were coming. But they'd be out of here by then. He frowned and went back to his job, wanting to start on their way back as soon as possible.

"Bells will ring ting-a-ling-a-ling ting-a-ling-a-ling and you'll sing Vita Bellaaaa…"

"Commander, I'm going into the cave to set the explosives," Malcolm said loudly, trying to make himself heard over the singing and choosing his Lieutenant voice in the hope Trip would react to it.

"Hearts will play tippy-tippy-tay tippy-tippy-tay like a gay tarantella…"

"TRIP!" Malcolm flinched and closed his eyes tightly as the shout sent pain shooting down his neck seemingly all the way to his toes. But finally he obtained silence.

"What?" Trip asked innocently.

Malcolm opened his eyes. "I am going into the cave to set the explosives," he repeated slowly. "Do. Not. Move."

"Why should I?"

"Right. No reason," Malcolm agreed. "I won't… Etchoo!... be long."

"Bless ya." Trip smiled.

"Thanks."

"When you swim in the sea and an eel bites your knee that's a morayyy…"

Malcolm grimaced.

"A New Zealander man with a permanent tan that's a Maoriiii…"

Shaking his head, Malcolm picked up his gear and headed inside the cave.

* * *

Archer watched in dismay as Naatian the Tall passed yet another piece of phase cannon through the cannon housing's hatch to Naatian the Curious. The Curious took it, turned it over in his hands as if he were studying it carefully, and tossed it on the floor. This had been going on for at least ten minutes now, and the Armoury was fast-becoming littered with pieces of cannon.

In another corner, the Haughty was getting every single phase pistol and gun out of the cabinet and taking them apart. The Suspicious, on the other hand, after tying him and Hoshi up and locking the Armoury door, had climbed onto the elevated deck to Reed's console and was, from what Archer could gather, misaligning targeting sensors and generally scrambling tactical systems thoroughly.

"Oh-boy. I hope I'm not around to see Lieutenant Reed's face when he sees all this," Hoshi murmured. "Or perhaps I hope I am. Should be a sight."

Archer fumed. He had to find a way to overpower these aliens and regain command of his ship. "What the hell are they doing this for?" he grunted, furious with the Naatians and deep down also a bit with himself for letting this happen. "It doesn't even look like they want our technology. More like they just want to take it apart!"

From the table where he was brutalizing Malcolm's precious weapons the Haughty waved a vehement hand in their direction, his face grey and perfectly oval.

"I think he's saying we should be quiet," Hoshi whispered.

"'Shut-up or else', Ensign: that's the translation you're looking for."

* * *

Malcolm checked the charges once more and stood up. His head immediately started to spin, forcing him to put a hand to the rock face to steady himself. He closed his eyes and suddenly became aware that his breath was somewhat short. When had that started? He had been so focused on his job that he had not paid attention to anything else. Damn. A runny nose and a few sneezes were one thing, but this… He ought to have been more cautious with those flowered shrubs. What if his condition became serious? With Trip in this state... He fumbled in his pockets and found a spray he always carried around for emergency situations. A few seconds later his breathing had evened out, and he tried to put the situation back into a less worrisome perspective – he'd set the bloody explosives off, get the ore and they'd head back.

"Malcolm?"

Malcolm spun towards the cave's entrance, belatedly remembering his dizziness. "Trip," he said in surprise, as he groped for the rock again to keep upright.

"Yup, that's me."

Malcolm frowned in disappointment. "I thought you said you'd wait outside," he said. He really needed Trip to stay put if he was to detonate the charges.

"Uh, yeah, that was the plan, but we've got a problem," Trip drawled, still sounding intoxicated and happy.

_Not another one, please,_ Malcolm silently begged. He didn't need more problems. "What problem?" he asked warily.

Trip waved a thumb over his shoulder. "We got ourselves company," he said with a sigh.

Malcolm's heart jumped in his throat. "What? Who?" he asked tensely. He stumbled forward and with a couple of strides was near Trip, pulling him more inside the cave, while he reached for his phase pistol. He squinted against the brightness of the daylight, trying to see outside. "I thought T'Pol said this continent was uninhabited…"

"'Tis. Unless you wanna count a pack of large quadrupeds as 'inhabitants'."

"Quadrupeds?" Malcolm groaned. "Bloody hell, the local fauna..."

"Don't look very friendly either," Trip commented with a smirk.

Malcolm gripped his weapon tightly and pushed Trip behind him. "Stay here," he told him. "And this time do," he added meaningfully. Keeping close to the cave wall, he reached the mouth of the cave and peeked outside. A dozen creatures were sitting fanned out, blocking their exit, and he felt an icy knot form in his gut. The animals were skinny but well muscled, and covered with a thick, grey fur that made them look very much like large dogs, or wolves. A few differences, but Malcolm didn't stop to catalogue them, for when the creatures saw him they bared rows of sharp-looking teeth and growled lowly. Damn, couldn't the life forms on this planet be at least consistent – preferably _all_ toothless?

The attack was sudden but not unexpected. Malcolm raised his pistol and fired.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

§ 6 §

Archer narrowed his eyes, wishing he could incinerate the Curious, who was meticulously inspecting every screw and bolt the Tall was passing him. Nothing personal – he would have liked to incinerate all four of them – but the Curious was closest. Judging from the amount of debris on the floor, he and the Tall were nearly finished dismantling a whole phase cannon. They had worked with incessant zeal. Archer hoped Naatians were subject to backache and that the job left them in need of intense physiotherapy.

"Great," he muttered under his breath.

"I wonder if they'll do the same with the other cannons," Hoshi dared to whisper back, noticing the Naatians seemed too busy to pay them very much attention.

"Watch the Haughty," Archer warned, shifting his gaze towards the corner where the slayer of phase pistols looked as if he was having the time of his life.

"The _what_?" Hoshi murmured back with a frown.

Archer belatedly remembered that the names were just something he had given the aliens in his mind: Hoshi had many gifts but at last count clairvoyance was not one of them. "The one _servicing_ the pistols," he breathed out sarcastically, jerking his head in the right direction, "The one who told us to shut up."

"Ah… yes."

Archer let out a soft snort of frustration. "He seems to be having fun, curse him."

Hoshi studied the alien in question then shifted her gaze to the Naatian at Malcolm's console. "Not nearly as much fun as the Lieutenant will have realigning the targeting sensors when he comes back," she whispered. "Assuming he'll _have_ a ship to come back to," she murmured as an afterthought.

Archer yawned. _Yawned?_ How could he yawn at a time like this? Suddenly he felt Hoshi's head on his shoulder.

"Sorry, Sir," she murmured self-consciously, jerking it up again. "This position is quite uncomfortable," she added as a way of an apology.

Indeed they had been sitting with their wrists and ankles tied for at least half an hour. Tiredness was setting in.

"No problem, Ensign," Archer murmured back. "Since there is nothing we can do at the moment, might as well try and get comfortable."

* * *

"Hey, Bungalow Bill, what did you kill, Bungalow Bill..."

Malcolm could hardly appreciate Trip's current musical comment as he shoved his friend unceremoniously back inside the cave: his mind was thoroughly distracted by the pain in the limp and bloodied limb that was hanging at his side. He had stunned a couple of those creatures and driven them back, but not before one of them had made close contact and clawed his left arm. The pack had now retreated to some distance, but they still seemed bent on getting their free meal.

"I think I might have scared them enough that they won't come inside," Malcolm said through gritted teeth. "But I doubt they'll leave us alone."

"Hey, Bungalow Bill, what did you kill, Bungalow Bill..."

Malcolm closed his eyes briefly, leaning in frustration with his back against the rock face and letting himself slide down to a crouching position. The Beatles. At least Trip's taste showed signs of improvement.

Damn, he didn't need an injury now. Not on top of an allergic reaction, with Trip acting drunk, a pack of predators stalking them, and bad weather coming. He pulled at the torn sleeve of his uniform to inspect his arm and hissed in pain, fighting off a bout of light-headedness. From what he could see the cuts weren't too deep. The injury was more painful than serious, but it was bleeding freely. Lucky those creatures didn't seem to know what a jugular is.

"What did ya do to your arm?" Trip suddenly asked, stopping singing.

Malcolm grimaced. "One of those wolf-like animals…"

"You oughtta be more careful, Mal," Trip said, grimacing back in sympathy. "Gotta take care of that wound."

Malcolm watched him stagger to the backpack and find the medkit.

"He went out tiger hunting with his elephant and gun… In case of accidents he always took his mom…" Trip shook his head. "Ya didn't take your mom, did ya?"

Malcolm let out a mirthless huff. He was starting to shiver. Bringing a weary hand to his eyes, he cursed himself for his carelessness. He should have called off the mission when Trip had begun to show signs of not being himself. He would never forgive himself if something should happen to them, to Trip, because of it. But then again, if something _was_ going to happen, he'd be beyond being able to regret it. He had to react. With an effort, he pushed himself off the wall and rose, wincing, to his feet.

Trip immediately stumbled to help him. "Hey, where d'ya think ya're goin'?" he asked, concern seeping into his drunken drawl. "Gotta stop the bleedin'". Not that Malcolm could rely much on his friend's balance; they both stood swaying like a couple of drunkards.

Trip started to put Malcolm's good arm across his shoulder but Malcolm disentangled himself. "Those creatures," he croaked out. "First I must find a way to keep them at bay." He staggered to his backpack and got out three distress flares, blessing his foresight for always wanting to bring so many 'unnecessary' things along.

"Have I ever told ya you're damn stubborn, Loo-tenant?" Trip frowned in irritation. He narrowed his eyes and sang in his face, "He's the all American bullet-headed Saxon mother's son…"

"Trip, please," Malcolm begged weakly. _I'm not even American_, he thought incongruously, as if the song really had any meaning. But his friend, for whatever reason, was in his own, distorted world.

* * *

Manetti was surfing. Was he snow or water surfing? He didn't know and couldn't care less which one it was. He had never done either of them, anyway. But he _was_ surfing, and having a great time. He could feel the breeze in his face and his shoulders moving with the…

"Wake up, Crewman."

_Wake up? _

"Do something, Dottor Floss!"

_Dottor Floss? _

"No need to fan him or shake his shoulder, Chef. He'll be all right, not to worry. Just like the others. The injection I gave him is already starting to work."

_Injection? _Manetti's eyes flew open. Two faces hovered above him. One cheerful, one grim.

"Welcome back, Crewman," Phlox said, as he and Chef put supporting hands behind his back to help him sit up from his supine position. "Just breathe in deeply a couple of times," he added in his carefree voice.

"What happened?" Manetti breathed out, after he had breathed in as instructed. He looked around him. They were in the Captain's mess; a few memories peeked into his brain and he immediately felt like shooing them away. The buggers were too insistent, though. As he began to remember, many things were still fuzzy but one was quite clear: egg recipes were no winners today.

Phlox was speaking, and Manetti tried to concentrate on his words.

"Those aliens stunned us – you, Subcommander T'Pol, Crewman Müller and I," Phlox was saying.

"Doctor," a familiar female voice interrupted. Subcommander T'Pol appeared on the mess's threshold. "We have a hostage situation. The Captain, Ensign Sato and the four Naatians are in the Armoury." For once she looked almost preoccupied.

Müller, who had been sitting – or, rather, slumping – on a chair, looking quite pale, revived immediately at the words. "Hostages? The Armoury?" He jumped to his feet, fixing eyes that were wide with horror on the Subcommander. "We must do something!"

"I am fully aware of that, Ensign," T'Pol replied while her eyebrows dashed up. Her calm tone of voice made Müller's words sound like the outburst of a madman.

The security man looked blank for a long moment; then a glint entered his eyes and he said, "I could try to reach the Armoury through the access tube."

"Ensign, we cannot risk the lives of the Captain and Ensign Sato: how confident are you that gaining entrance into the Armoury through the access tube will go unnoticed by the Naatians?" T'Pol asked Müller in a low voice that held a note of tension.

Müller took his time to reply. The last thing he wanted was to botch a rescue attempt and end up with lives on his conscience. One of them that of their Captain.

"The access tube is on the higher level of the Armoury," he reasoned. "Those aliens are probably busy on the lower level studying and downloading information on our tactical systems. I believe we can do it," he answered truthfully. "As for rescuing the hostages," he added, just as sincerely, "It will depend on what we find. But we can always slip away undetected, if I see the situation is too touchy."

He stood straight under the scrutiny of T'Pol's slightly apprehensive eyes.

"Agreed," the Subcommander eventually said, crossing her arms over her chest. "How many men do you deem appropriate to take with you?"

"One will be enough, Ma'am," Müller answered without hesitation. "We must minimize the noise. And two against four makes the odds more than acceptable."

"Get prepared," T'Pol told him quietly with a nod.

* * *

Malcolm was shivering badly. Something must be wrong with the ship's environmental system, for it was bloody cold. Eyes closed, he listened to his breathing, which was raspy, and wondered when he had last felt so rotten.

"Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow…"

Heart pounding, Malcolm jerked awake. He wasn't on Enterprise…_They_ weren't on Enterprise… They were on that planet, Trip was on a singing spree, he himself had been injured and had been planting distress flares at the mouth of that cave to… He looked around: he was slumped against the cave wall… he must have passed out.

Blinking a few times to clear his mind more than his sight, he tried to straighten up and found that his movements were hindered. He glanced down and realized why: his left arm was in a sling. His injury had been dressed, and he had probably been given a shot, for he was in very little pain. Trip must be getting back to norm...

"Oh the weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful, and since we've no place to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow."

_Never mind_… Teeth chattering uncontrollably, Malcolm took stock of the situation. A thermal blanket had been wrapped around him, but he was still bloody cold: undoubtedly a consequence of his being ill and injured. Trip's new tune, however… Ah, no, couldn't be… He turned to the cave's mouth and his eyes almost popped out of their sockets: it _was_ snowing! Just how long had he been out? T'Pol had said temperatures dropped at night. The flares planted at the mouth of the cave prevented him from seeing well, but the natural light filtering inside seemed indeed to be very dim. And the fact that it was snowing lightly meant the bad weather was beginning…

"Hey, Malcolm," Trip greeted him cheerfully from a few meters away, poking a small fire he had built, God knows how. "Sleep well?" He too was wrapped in a thermal blanket.

Malcolm pushed to a sitting position and pulled the blanked as tightly as he could around himself, shivers racking his body. "Those cr…creatures," he managed, in a shaky voice. "Are th…they still th…there?" But Trip's singing soared over his stuttering.

"It doesn't show sign of stopping, and I've bought some corn for popping…" Trip broke off for a brief smirk. "Wish I had," he said. "The lights are turned way down low, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow."

"Trip," Malcolm called, cursing his friend's state and his own weak voice. Hell, this was going from bad to worse, he mulled, trying to clamp down on his concern, which risked mounting at exponential speed. "T…Trip," he shrieked, fighting against his shivers and his wheezing. His friend stopped poking the fire and turned to him.

"Wo...would you mind g...giving me another th…thermal b…blanket?"

"Ya still cold?" Trip asked in surprise. "Jee, Mal, ya shakin' like a leaf!" Trip got up and went to rummage inside a backpack. "You oughtta come nearer to the fire. Here ya go," he said a moment later, spreading another blanket around Malcolm's shoulders and patting them fatherly-like.

"Th…thanks," Malcolm mumbled, pulling the second blanket tightly around him, right on top of the first. He slowly dragged his numb body towards the fire like the man in the desert clawing his way towards the oasis, and as he inched towards it he could feel the warmth rising gradually. Where on earth had Trip found the wood to build a fire? There had been none inside the cave. Perhaps those creatures _had_ gone away.

As he warmed up the world started to spin, so Malcolm spent the next few minutes very still: he had to figure out a way to get them out of there, and that was probably best done when he could actually get things to stop moving and locate the exit. Of course it would have helped if Trip had given him a little peace and quiet, but the man was still going strong. He had to admit, though: his friend had an uncanny way of finding songs that suited their circumstances. What in the world had happened to him? He must be having a reaction to something on the planet too.

Finally Malcolm's shivering subsided, and with it also his dizziness. Perhaps now he would be able to speak _and_ make sense. His breathing was still a little short and wheezy, but at least it didn't seem to be getting worse. Good thing, because his life-saving spray was almost empty.

"Those creatures," Malcolm repeated weakly, taking advantage of a pause in his friend's vocal performance. "Are they still out there?"

A glint of amusement crossed Trip's eyes. "What, ya mean the nice doggies?" he asked lightly.

"I wouldn't define them quite like that," Malcolm panted, meaningfully raising the arm that was in a sling. "They are out there because they intend to make a quick snack of us." He didn't know why he was trying to make a conversation. Trip was obviously in no condition to hold one – at least not one that made sense. Perhaps because he didn't like to feel so 'alone' in this; or he hoped Trip would miraculously snap out of whatever it was he was in.

"Not any more," Trip sing-sang.

"They went away?" Malcolm hoped against all hope this was what Trip meant.

Trip got the canteen and put it to his lips, and Malcolm bit back a warning shout, almost reaching out to stop him as if it had been a bottle of Scotch. Good grief, he _was_ getting paranoid – this time he truly was. When Trip had finished drinking, Malcolm held out his hand and took a few long gulps from the flask too.

"Nope," Trip replied.

Malcolm frowned. "Nope what?" he asked, his voice rising. "For heaven's sake, Trip, try to make sense!" he cried out in frustration.

"Nope they didn't go away and nope they don't wanna make a snack of us any more." Trip shrugged. "The poor things were hungry, so I fed 'em. I was right, Loo-tenant. Was a good idea to carry some extra food along." He showed Malcolm the empty wrappings of more than a few ratio packs.

Malcolm closed his eyes tightly; the notion that while he was out cold Trip had fed a pack of famished predators as if they were family _pooches_ was making him dizzy again. He made an effort to remain calm, because worrying wouldn't help his already laboured breathing.

"They're still around, then?" he finally forced himself to ask, watching his friend.

"Sleepin' like well-fed babies," Trip answered with a wide grin. Then he turned to the fire again. "The snow is snowin', and the wind is blowin', but I can weather the stoooorm… What do I care how much it may storm…"

Ella Fitzgerald. Anything older and it would be Gregorian chant. He could only hope Trip would not act out on the song; dancing cheek to cheek had been a wild enough experience, thank you.

"I've got my looove to keep me warm…"

Sighing, Malcolm leaned his forehead on his raised knees and closed his eyes again, trying to gather enough energy to get up and check if Trip had told him the truth. He didn't dare hope the _nice doggies_ were actually taking a nap.

* * *

"Oh no, no, no!" Chef wailed, grabbing his hair with both hands. His eyes were fixed on two glass jars, both filled with a white powdery substance, standing neatly with others in a corner of his galley counter.

Chef felt incapable of moving. But he had to know. He let go of his hair and reached out with a trembling hand to pick one of them up as if it had been a bomb ready to explode. Unscrewing its lid, he brought it to his nose and sniffed it lightly. He closed his eyes tightly, then cracked them open again and grabbed the other jar, smelling its contents too.

"Oh, no, no, no," he moaned again, collapsing on a nearby chair. "Questa non è proprio la mia giornata! Just not my day, no!"

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

§ 7 §

One hand up to stop Crewman Kim, Müller paused behind the access tube panel, holding his breath. Not a single, albeit muffled, sound could be heard. Finally remembering to breathe again, he checked the stun setting on his phase pistol, made sure the other security man was ready, steeled himself and gently pushed on the panel.

_So far so good_, Müller thought in relief, when the panel gave way without much of a sound. Opening it, he spied the elevated platform: he would have to take a few steps to be able to see what was going on below.

Silence reigned supreme, and Müller wondered briefly if the Subcommander had not been mistaken: perhaps the Naatians were no longer here, perhaps they had taken the hostages somewhere else. Although… there was a soft noise, now that his ears were becoming accustomed to this eerie silence. It almost sounded like…

Müller crouched; then, signalling his man to follow him quietly, inched ahead, phase pistol at the ready. When he was in position, he risked a quick glance below. He saw one of the aliens bent over a pile of rubble, and jerked back, afraid to be spotted. His heart was racing, pumping adrenaline through his system. Another rapid glance, and he located the Captain and Sato sitting in a removed corner. No one was guarding them. He felt he could act. Raising his hand, he signalled Kim again, nodding and showing three fingers. Taking a steadying breath, he started the countdown.

They sprang up in perfect synchrony, arms outstretched and all senses on the alert.

"Kreuz, Birnbaum und Hollerstauden!"

The vernacular curse had escaped Müller's lips after a few seconds of stunned silence. "Sir?" Kim asked in disbelief – and it wasn't clear if he wanted instructions or a translation.

Not that Müller could give him one: the curse was untranslatable. But even if it hadn't been, he wasn't sure he could find his voice. The Armoury was littered with rubble; not simple _rubble_, it looked like… pieces of phase cannon? Yes, those under that Naatian – the one who had seemed bent but was in fact lying face down – were indeed pieces of phase cannon. Another Naatian was draped over Reed's console; a third one was slumped next to a pile of disassembled phase pistols.

Müller frantically scanned the rest of the room. Where the hell was the fourth one? A sudden noise made them turn, and they aimed their pistols in its direction. The fourth alien appeared at the open hatch of the cannon housing, a piece of tubing in his hands. He leaned out, blinked, and collapsed across it, the tubing crashing loudly to the ground.

It was then that a loud snore made them turn again, to where the Captain and Hoshi lay leaning against each other, apparently fast asleep.

* * *

"Subcommander," Phlox said grimly, stepping onto the bridge with Chef. "I need to speak to you."

T'Pol almost sighed. "Doctor, this is not the best moment. I have a security detail stationed outside the Armoury and am expecting Ensign Müller to contact me at any time, with news of his rescue attempt."

"You need to hear this, T'Pol," Phlox insisted. Having got the Subcommander's attention he asked, "Are you acquainted with Trinacular seaweed?"

T'Pol frowned imperceptibly "It's a spice used on Denobula," she answered.

Phlox nodded. "It's found in many recipes," he said lightly. "It's quite delicious sprinkled on fresh leeches, for example." Quickly sobering his tone, he added, "I believe you also know of its soporific effects on some species' physiology… humans for example."

"Your point, Doctor," T'Pol said levelly.

"Chef made a very special soup, so to speak. He used my Trinacular seaweed powder mistaking it for salt."

"E' incredibile," Chef moaned, despair in his voice. "How could I? I keep the Doctor's spices well separated from the others, but this morning I was looking for something and moving the jars around. I must have mixed them up…"

T'Pol studied Chef then asked, "Are you referring to the asparagus soup we ate, Doctor?"

Phlox sighed, raising his eyebrows. "And have you ever heard of Thalassian sweet root?"

"It's a sweetener," T'Pol said thoughtfully. "At least for Denobulans…" she added.

"Chef also made some very special pecan pie."

T'Pol's eyes seemed to grow larger. "The Commander and Lieutenant were scheduled to have completed their mission and docked more than two hours ago," she said, raising her eyebrows in a silent enquiry.

Phlox looked back at her in concern. He exchanged a glance with Chef, who looked distraught. "That doesn't necessarily mean that… Have you tried to contact them?"

T'Pol tilted her head. "Naturally. But the approaching storms are creating interference.

Chef buried his face in his hands.

"Müller to Subcommander T'Pol…"

* * *

Fighting was part of his job description. But as he fought to keep upright, keep expanding his lungs, keep warm enough to actually move, and keep Trip pointed in the right direction, Malcolm wished he had followed his Aunt's advice and become a university professor. Right now he'd be sitting at his desk, lecturing a bunch of bleary-eyed students, instead of risking becoming this planet's Iceman Mummy.

It had been only a forty-five minute walk from the shuttlepod to the cave, but things had changed pretty drastically since their way in. Now they were in the middle of a snowstorm, in the dim light of evening and in freezing temperatures. Visibility was close to zero, and he had to rely on his scanner to keep them on the right track. He didn't fancy ending up walking blindly into that lake – or even that pond – they had skirted on their way in.

When Malcolm had finally managed to drag himself upright in that cave, and had gone to see for himself what awaited them outside it, he had been fully prepared to fight off another attack of those creatures. He had taken a tentative peek beyond the flares that protected them, and had been astonished to see them gone. If they were anything like animals on Earth, they had probably sensed the bad weather coming and retreated into their dens. On a full stomach, given the amount of food Trip had fed them.

Speaking of Trip… Malcolm had grabbed him by one arm, and was dragging him along as they stumbled forward. Narrowing his eyes against the swirling snow, Malcolm turned to look at him, trying to read the expression on his friend's face. Trip had stopped singing, which, if anything, was adding to Malcolm's concern: he couldn't deny it was a blessing, but his pessimistic nature had begun to take it as a sign that Trip's condition might be worsening. He prayed it wouldn't be, for his own condition was worrisome enough. Especially his allergic reaction: his emergency spray had run out of whatever miracle drug it contained, and he was gulping in oxygen in difficult gasps and didn't know if he actually had it in him to get them back to the shuttlepod and to safety. If only he could contact Enterprise… but the weather was blocking communication.

The freshly-fallen snow was slippery, and Malcolm suddenly lost his footing and tumbled to the ground, carrying his friend with him. He just lay there, fighting to get air into his lungs. He knew he had to get up, but his energy was seeping out of him like sand out of a bag with a hole in it. He was numb with cold and with pain – his injury having decided it would be a shame not to add to his miseries – and his hands were icicles. If Trip _had_ been more of a Pavarotti, this, undoubtedly, would be the time for _Che gelida manina – _although knowing Trip he'd probably sing some obnoxious translation, _'Damn, but your hand is ice-cold' _or _'Sheesh, your hand is freezing'_. An image of Trip as Rodolfo from _La Bohème_, kneeling in front of him holding his hand formed in Malcolm's mind, but instead of amusement he felt a painful lump form in his throat. He turned with an effort to check on his friend: Trip was on all four, shivering, his head hanging down low between his shoulders.

"Trip," he wheezed out weakly. He didn't even know why. A waste of precious breath, really, for even if he'd had anything to tell him, there was no chance he'd be heard in this wind. But he did have something to tell him, didn't he. _I'm sorry_, he whispered to him silently in his mind.

Incredibly, Trip raised his head and looked at him, eyes wild. "What the hell is goin' on?" he shouted, his voice wavering with the shivers that were racking him.

Malcolm wanted to answer, but his voice was AWOL. He just stared at him through eyes that were mere slits, curled up on himself, his breath hitching, feeling bloody exhausted, and frustrated and angry at himself for letting this happen, and sad that it was to end like this, and… his eyelids were so damn heavy. There just wasn't enough energy left in him, the bag was empty.

"Malcolm!"

* * *

"You mean to tell me they felt threatened by a plate of_ omelettes_?"

Archer pinned T'Pol with his green eyes. He wanted to make no mistakes about this. He knew his tone was thick with some strong emotion that would undoubtedly rub his Vulcan SIC the wrong way, but this was a bit too much.

"_Yellow_ omelettes," T'Pol specified calmly, as if it was privileged information.

"Ah, yeah, well, T'Pol: I don't know what colour omelettes are on Vulcan, but on Earth yellow is the _hue_ omelettes generally come in," Archer replied through gritted teeth.

"That is… unfortunate," T'Pol said, raising her eyebrows. Her expression held -- Archer wondered what it was, it looked like a pang of something, but of course it couldn't be guilt or shame, this being a Vulcan.

They were in sickbay. Archer was sitting on a biobed, his legs dangling, and Phlox was hovering around taking readings from him and Hoshi, who was lying on a bed still looking a bit dazed after being brought back to consciousness by the Doctor.

After a moment of stunned silence, Archer broke into a tense smile that held no mirth whatsoever. "Would you be so kind as to explain yourself, Subcommander?"

"Naatians place a lot of meaning on colour," T'Pol began. "It's part of their way to communicate." She raised one eyebrow. "As you may have noticed."

"It would've been hard to miss," Archer muttered darkly.

Standing with legs slightly apart, T'Pol put her arms behind her back. "Apparently yellow, in Naatian culture, is the colour of war and aggression; of open challenge. In their way of thinking, being served yellow food was tantamount to being threatened, Captain. Logically, they reacted and took measures to incapacitate Enterprise's dangerousness."

"Logically," Archer repeated dryly.

T'Pol briefly averted her eyes in a very uncharacteristic gesture, and Archer narrowed his, studying her more closely. "Why do I get the feeling that we ought to have known about this?" he asked, trying to keep his voice level.

"The Naatians sent us information on their culture," T'Pol said, after a small, uncomfortable pause.

"But you warned us about what to do and not to do in their presence," Archer countered, with a suspicious frown.

"Indeed. However…"

"T'Pol?" Archer prompted, cringing inside.

"When the data gathered by those mind-melders was run into the translation matrix a mistake occurred... in the section dealing with 'behaviours to be avoided'." She looked at Archer. "And I didn't recognise it."

"Go on."

"There was a list of things, Captain," T'Pol said levelly, her eyebrows shooting up again. "_Yell_," she paused briefly for stress, "Was one of them."

"Oh." Archer stared at his SIC. This could not be. Words spoken just hours before in his ready room echoed in his mind - _You never know when something might go wrong…_ Perhaps he really ought to start taking Malcolm's paranoia a bit more seriously.

"It was a regrettable error," T'Pol said. "I apologise for not being able to detect it right away," she added quietly. "After the incident I analysed the data more carefully and found it."

Archer's irritation began to melt away. "No one is perfect," he told his contrite – he secretly smiled at the notion – Science Officer.

"Where are the Naatians now?" he asked.

"Ah, Captain," Phlox butted in cheerfully, "We put them in the decon chamber. They are still under the effect of Trinacular seaweed: sound asleep."

"This seaweed of yours, Doc," Archer enquired hesitantly. "It isn't harmful to them, is it?"

Phlox's blue eyes twinkled as his mouth curved up. "Not at all, Captain, not at all! I expect them to wake up in about half an hour as refreshed as after a good night's sleep," he said cheerfully.

"Thank God," Archer commented, relief clear in his voice. He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders, ready to take command of the situation again.

"Good. Any news from Trip and Malcolm? Are they back yet?"

His mood immediately took another plunge as T'Pol exchanged a worried glance with Doctor Phlox.

"Are you familiar with Thalassian sweet root, Captain?" T'Pol asked quietly.

--

TBC

PS: For those who are wondering about the Iceman Mummy: **Ötzi the Iceman** (also spelled **Oetzi**), **Frozen Fritz**, and **Similaun Man** are modern nicknames of a well-preserved natural mummy of a man from about 3300 BC, found in 1991 in a glacier of the Ötztal Alps, near the border between Austria and Italy.


	8. Chapter 8

§ 8 §

Trip had never felt so damn cold in his life. And scared. And confused. He could remember virtually nothing between starting on their hike to mine platinum and waking up in a blizzard with Malcolm half-dead at his side. His friend had an arm in a sling and was having difficulty breathing, and Trip was terrified of what he might have done – or rather failed to do – for them to be in this situation.

Where the hell were they anyway? His last memories were of sweltering heat and sunny weather, and here he was now, on what looked like Andoria in winter. Narrowing his eyes against the blowing snow, he looked around. Something on the ground attracted his attention. A blue light: Malcolm's scanner… it must have fallen out of his hand. He grabbed it and stared at it in confusion: this was the very same planet, and… His heart jumped in his throat: that was their Shuttlepod, no further than a couple hundred meters away! He would have never known, without the instrument, in this damn visibility. He had to get them to it.

"Malcolm!"

Trip shook Malcolm's shoulder, oblivious of his injury. He realised it too late, or perhaps was desperate enough to resort even to pain to revive him. Malcolm moaned, and Trip immediately regretted his callousness. But his friend's eyes cracked open, and that alone was enough to light up a flame of hope in Trip's heart.

"Come on," he said, forcing his numb and trembling limbs to cooperate. He started to pick Malcolm up. "The Shuttlepod is not far away."

"T…Trip?" Malcolm wheezed out through his own shivers. He sounded baffled. As if he hadn't expected Trip to be there with him.

"Come on," Trip repeated, heaving Malcolm up. "I'll carry most of your weight, but give me a hand, ok?" For a moment it was like trying to get a rag doll to stand, but then Malcolm's pride/stubbornness/will power kicked in and they began to make their wobbling and difficult way to safety.

* * *

"Try again, Hoshi," Archer said tautly. He wished he could rewind time back to breakfast.

Hoshi was still a bit pale but looked the picture of concentration as she pressed on her earpiece; and if anybody was able to pick up the faintest sound, it was her. After a moment, however, she looked at her Captain, brow slightly knitted. "I'm sorry, Sir."

Archer pursed his lips; then touched Mayweather's shoulder. "Prep Shuttlepod two, Travis."

"Captain," T'Pol argued. "The weather conditions on the Northern continent are only going to get worse."

"That's why we need to act now," Archer countered firmly. "You have the…"

"Captain, I'm reading a power signature." There was barely restrained emotion in Müller's voice, at tactical. "I believe Shuttlepod one is being powered up."

"Believe?" Archer didn't want to take any chances. He'd go down to the damn planet himself, if necessary, but he'd bring Trip and Malcolm back to Enterprise.

"It is, Sir. I am positive of it."

"Confirmed," T'Pol added from her science console.

* * *

"What's wrong with your breathin'?" Trip asked, worry etched on his face.

They had just made it to the pod, and as soon as the hatch had been closed Malcolm had collapsed on a bench, blue from lack of oxygen and looking ready to pass out.

"Allergy," Malcolm wheezed out weakly, his body shaking convulsively. His face scrunched up as he fought to draw breath. "Spray… medkit…"

Trip jumped up and stumbled as fast as his stiff limbs would carry him to the right compartment, cursing his numb and trembling hands as they fumbled with the latch.

A moment later he was helping Malcolm bring his shivering hand and the spray to his mouth. "Sheesh, your hands are freezing," he exclaimed. Malcolm's eyes flashed open and an odd expression crossed them. "I know," he added. "Stupid thing to say."

Soon Malcolm was breathing much more easily, and Trip rushed to power up the pod and turned the heating to full blast. It wouldn't take long before they began to feel some warmth in their bones again.

Trip sank on the bench opposite Malcolm's, leaned his head back and closed his eyes, wanting to get his trembling under control. He listened to his friend avidly sucking in air. The pod was being rocked by gusts of wind, and Trip knew that the sooner he got them out of there, the better. So after a couple of minutes he fought his exhaustion and began to stand.

Malcolm's wavering voice broke the silence. "You all right?" It was barely above a whisper, but it carried some rather strong emotion.

Trip looked at him, puzzled. "I think that's actually what I should be asking you," he said with a mirthless huff. "Seems you're the one who's worse off."

Another gust rocked them, and Trip didn't wait for an answer. He sat in the pilot's seat and his expert fingers began to go through a quick pre-flight check.

It wasn't long before his peripheral vision saw Malcolm stumble to the seat next to his. He glanced at him briefly. He looked terrible, but no point telling him; Trip was pretty sure his friend knew as much and wouldn't appreciate hearing it.

Finally everything was ready for take off. Trip fired up the thrusters and the pod lifted off the ground. As they soared away from what had nearly turned into their final resting place, Trip felt joy and relief swell within him.

"Hallelujah! Hallelujah!"

He turned to Malcolm with a smile. "Isn't that Hand-something?"

"Handel," Malcolm muttered back. He was looking at him askance, his grey eyes definitely wary.

"What?" Trip asked with a frown. "Don't you like classical music?"

* * *

The light turned red, signalling that the airlock had depressurised again, and Archer slowly deflated, his shoulders slumping. The Naatians had boarded their pod. In a few minutes they'd be _leaving_. Archer felt ten years older. Or perhaps just in need of a good, long night of sleep.

Although in the end they had managed to understand each other – 'understand the misunderstanding', as it were – and had patched things up, he wasn't looking forward to writing his report to Starfleet on this particular first contact.

Now all he wanted was to know that Shuttlepod One had docked, and make sure Trip and Malcolm were fine – when he had hailed them some ten minutes before Trip had kept their conversation vague and short, which had worried him slightly. Then he could call it a day. And what a day it had been.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn't notice T'Pol's searching eyes on him until she spoke, bringing him back to the present.

"Are you all right, Captain?"

"Uh, yeah," he replied awkwardly. "Just a little… tired." He smiled tautly.

"It is quite logical," she commented predictably.

Archer was getting a bit tired of that word. Especially since nothing seemed to have been particularly logical that day. T'Pol's tone, however, hadn't been a lecturing one and he decided to read a hint of concern in it. He liked that.

"Chef commed while you were talking to Commander Tucker," T'Pol added after a moment.

"Really?" Archer asked dryly. "What did he want – invite us to a sampling of Denobulan cuisine?" Well, the day had been tense enough; he was entitled to being a little short-tempered.

T'Pol looked at him blankly. "He didn't mention that."

"Just joking, T'Pol," Archer explained. "What did he want, then?" he asked again, even though he had a fairly good idea.

"To know if the Commander and Lieutenant had returned. He sounded concerned."

"He ought to be," Archer bit back. He sighed. He knew he wasn't being very fair to Chef: the man had carried out his duties impeccably up to now and...

Just then the comm. link sounded. "Phlox to Captain Archer."

_What now?_ Archer walked to it and pressed the button to answer the hail. "Yes, Doc."

"Captain, I thought you should know that Chef has come down with the flu. I'm afraid you'll have to do without his services for a few days at least," Phlox informed him.

"The flu? How on earth did he get it?" Archer blurted out. "Never mind," he hurried to add, dreading a lengthy Phlox explanation – he just wasn't up to one now. As the news sank in, he thought with a hint of wickedness that at least they'd be safe from treacherous foodstuff for a while.

"Captain," Phlox continued, "You do realise that this was almost certainly the cause of Chef's uncharacteristic distraction."

Archer sighed again. Chef had messed up big today, beginning with his breakfast eggs, but then he had also saved the day. He couldn't deny that the man's revised Asparagus Soup had worked out better than Malcolm's stun grenades – just as incapacitating but less destructive. He felt a twinge of regret for having been angry at him. Poor Chef. After all, it seemed they all had something to be forgiven for: Chef, T'Pol; even himself, for treating Malcolm as a paranoid maniac.

"Please, Phlox, give Chef my best wishes and tell him not to worry," he said into the comm. link. "We will manage for a few days without him. And don't forget to tell him that I'm not mad at him." _Hell, Starfleet might even give him a medal_, he thought with a touch of amusement.

"Certainly, Captain," Phlox's cheerful voice replied.

* * *

As Shuttlepod One flew towards the extended docking arm, another vessel detached itself from one of Enterprise's docking ports. Malcolm peered at it through the windshield and smirked.

"Looks like we just missed our guests," he said. Not that he could care any less at the moment. Thanks to the spray he was breathing better again, but he was knackered and aching and probably feverish and only happy they were back, both alive and… almost well. Besides, if that alien pod was flying away undisturbed it meant things had gone smoothly in this first contact after all. He felt a pang of conscience at the thought of what a hard time he had given Captain Archer before leaving on their mission. Perhaps he _should_ tone down his paranoia a little.

"Feelin' bad about it?" Trip asked him, his eyes never leaving the commands.

"Not in the least. Enterprise is in one piece, that's the important thing," Malcolm replied truthfully.

Thankfully Handel's little excerpt had been a false alarm, and to Malcolm's relief Trip seemed to have stopped turning their mission into a musical. He was also more than grateful the Engineer had taken charge and piloted the pod without asking for his assistance. He would have probably crashed them back onto the planet had he tried to help. Still, Trip looked pale and exhausted, and their flight back had been carried out in weary silence.

Suddenly Malcolm couldn't hold back a yawn.

"You can't go to sleep before tellin' me what the hell happened on that planet," Trip said with a forced chuckle. He sounded a bit nervous.

A 'clonk' signalled the docking arm had engaged.

Malcolm rubbed his eyes. "Not now, Trip," he replied tiredly. "I am knackered and - besides - I don't think I have enough breath for it. It will _all_ be in my report, don't worry."

Trip shot him an anxious glance. "Yeah, well, I was hopin' you'd give me at least a clue."

"In few words: it was quite… an experience," Malcolm wheezed out. "But – trust me," he added with a smile, seeing Trip's worried look. "You were always... _in_ _tune_ with the situation."

Trip now eyed him suspiciously.

The launchbay doors closed with a familiar sound. Home. They were _home_. Malcolm relaxed into the back of his seat and closed his eyes.

"By the way, did we get any platinum?" Trip asked.

"Nope," Malcolm slurred. Cracking his eyes open again, he added, "But some lucky bloke will find a whole big pile of ore ready to be carried away. Couldn't leave the charges unexploded – too risky – so I detonated them after we left the cave," he explained.

Trip looked at him blankly. "Cave? What cave?"

"Ah, well..." Malcolm pinched the bridge of his nose. Just then the hatch door was opened from outside.

"Trip, Malcolm. It's good to have you back." Malcolm watched Archer's concerned face appear. The Captain looked at Trip; then his eyes fell on Malcolm's sling. "What happened to your arm?" he asked with a frown.

Malcolm saw Trip's unease go up a few notches and suddenly felt bad about keeping him in the dark. It must feel awkward for the Officer in command of the mission not to remember anything about it.

"The... fauna," Malcolm mumbled, slowly scrambling to his feet but keeping a hand on the back of his seat. He didn't trust his balance.

"Excuse me, Captain," a well-known voice butted in, and Doctor Phlox climbed inside the pod and studied them both with a professional eye before raising his tricorder to get a few readings off them.

"Good to see ya too, Capt'n," Trip said hesitantly.

"Uh, Trip, you ok?" Archer asked, studying his Chief Engineer closely.

Malcolm frowned. Why was the Captain eyeing Trip as if he had sprouted Andorian antennae or something?

"Yeah," Trip replied diffidently, taking a half step back from the scrutiny.

Malcolm took pity on his friend and diverted Archer's attention to himself. "We saw the alien pod leave," he mumbled – thinking and/or speaking clearly was beyond his capabilities right now. The Doctor passed his medical scanner up and down his body, stopping with a frown at lung level, and watched him warily. Malcolm returned the look. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say a word Phlox had jabbed a hypospray to his neck and discharged its contents into his bloodstream.

Archer put on a bashful expression. "Ah, yes. I'm sorry you ended up missing our guests, Lieutenant."

"Not your fault, Sir," Reed replied, wishing they would all give him a rest. "We were... delayed."

"Well, how was it?" Trip asked Archer bluntly.

"Uhm, how can I explain it in few words?" Archer said with a faint smile. "Let's put it this way: it was quite… a colourful experience; and not one which was always easy to… _tone_ _in_ with."

Malcolm would have laughed at the choice of words, but wanted to conserve his breath. He was also starting to feel more than a little drowsy. He used whatever energy he had left to enquire after security. "With your permission, Sir, I would like to get Müller's report as soon as possible," he said, passing a weary hand through his hair.

"Sorry to interrupt, Captain," Phlox cut in, and Malcolm's brain, from its bed of mothballs, wondered briefly why the expression on Archer's face looked like one of relief.

"We need to get the Commander and Lieutenant to the decon chamber and sickbay," Phlox continued. "Both need to change out of these damp uniforms and get looked after. The Lieutenant is suffering from the effects of a rather serious allergic reaction: I gave him an injection and I'm sure he's already feeling drowsy from it; plus his injury needs tending. The Commander did indeed ingest some Thalassian sweet root, although its effects seem to have disappeared."

"Wait a minute – I ingested _what_?" Trip's eyes widened in alarm.

"Thalassian sweet root?" Malcolm enquired, fighting to keep his eyes from drooping closed. A nasty suspicion was forming in his mind.

"The Doc will tell you about it, Trip," Archer said a bit too fast, "But now you better do as he tells you." He shifted his gaze from one to the other. "You both look like you could use some sleep."

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

§ 9 §

"Any news, Phlox?" Archer enquired through the comm. link in his ready room. Seven hours had passed since Trip and Malcolm had returned, and Archer was getting antsy. He wanted to learn about their mission and tell them about what had happened on Enterprise. He didn't like the idea that Malcolm was still in the dark as to the state of his Armoury.

"They dropped off the moment they were horizontal, Captain," Phlox replied. A chuckle floated out of the comm. link. "In fact, Lieutenant Reed even before."

"How much longer do you think they'll sleep?" Archer asked, trying to make it sound like a routine enquiry.

"Commander Tucker woke up a half-hour ago. Lieutenant Reed is still resting – indeed a normal reaction to the meds I gave him. But he should re-awaken at any moment." Phlox replied. "I was a bit worried about Mr. Reed's allergy, but he reacted very well to the treatment. I see no reason – no _medical_ reason, that is," he specified in an amused tone of voice, "to keep him off duty. I believe he and Mr. Tucker can take the rest of the day off and be back on duty tomorrow."

"Do me a favour, Doc," Archer said. "Would you send Trip up to my ready room? Also Malcolm, when he wakes up."

* * *

Ensign Müller felt like a policeman directing traffic. Standing in the middle of the Armoury, he waved his arms and barked commands, trying to get the place at least in _some_ kind of order. When he had learnt that his CO had returned to the ship, he had known the dreaded moment of reporting to him had come. Phlox, however, had shooed him out of sickbay, saying Lieutenant Reed was resting and whatever he had to tell him could wait. Müller wasn't sure the Doc had been right – the more he waited, the worse he felt about telling Reed about what had happened on Enterprise – but had been forced to yield. He had returned to the Armoury, where he had decided the best thing for him to do was to get busy and attempt to put things as straight as possible before his CO set foot inside his domain again.

Kim held out a nondescript piece of metal and looked up from his short height to Müller's meter-ninety-five. "Any idea what this is, Ensign?" he asked, a hint of despair in his voice.

Müller shifted his green eyes down to the object. "Looks like a piece of phase cannon."

"Yes, Sir. But _which one_?"

"Come on, you two," Müller prompted a couple of crewmen at the back of the room. "You're taking way too long. You should be able to put phase pistols back together even in the dark!"

"Sir?" Kim was still standing before him, actually waiting for an answer. Müller's mind was crossed by another untranslatable German curse.

"Try to figure it out, Crewman," he replied with a helpless smirk. "In any case, soon you'll have some help. I asked Lieutenant Hess to send over a couple of engineers."

Kim huffed. "What would really help would be to be able to bring up the cannon's schematics," he said in irritation. "But those… _aliens_ put their delicate eight fingers in every damn system, scrambling everything! Rebuilding the cannon is like… like putting together a giant puzzle without knowing what it's supposed to represent!"

Müller sighed. "Look, if nothing else works, try picturing Lieutenant Reed's face if he should walk through that door right now. I'm sure that will help you develop a sudden gift for solving puzzles."

* * *

"Ah, Capt'n, if you're busy I can come back another time," Trip said, peeking anxiously into the ready room.

Archer broke into a quick smile. "If I were busy, I wouldn't have called you in the first place. Right?"

"Uh, yeah, I suppose that's true." Trip grinned nervously and stepped in, stopping just inside.

"Come on in," Archer said encouragingly. "I won't charge you for sitting down." He watched as his Chief Engineer took a few gingerly steps. "Sit," he ordered him outright, feeling as if he was talking to Porthos. Trip went to the nearest chair and sat down obediently.

"How are you feeling?" Archer enquired.

"Great," Trip replied with one of his grins. "Just slept for six hours straight."

"Yeah, Phlox told me. Still, the Doc wants you and Malcolm to be off duty till tomorrow morning. This won't take long. I just want a short verbal report on your mission."

Trip immediately paled to a disturbing off-white shade, making Archer wince - God, was he sick of seeing people's faces change colour. At least it was not some revolting 'rotten leaves green' or, God forbid, _yellow_.

Archer smiled reassuringly. "Phlox commed a minute ago, saying that Malcolm woke up too. He should…" Just then his door bell chimed. "Ah, speak of the devil," Archer said, sending Trip's blood plunging even more, probably into his toes – the man was now _white_-white.

"Come in."

"You wanted to see me, Captain?" Malcolm asked in a polite voice. Six and a half hours of sleep, a few meds and a change of uniform, and the man looked more or less his usual pristine self again, if one overlooked the optional extras added: a new sling and dark rings under the eyes.

"I did, Lieutenant. Come in and take a seat."

"Thank you, Sir."

Malcolm walked in like an automaton and took a place beside Trip, nodding sharply to greet him, and Trip responded with an awkward grin.

Archer regarded his two officers in silence for a few moments. It looked as though they were sitting on eggs: afraid to move lest they break them. _For heaven's sake, let's not think of eggs_, a little voice suggested, and he couldn't but agree.

"You'll be off duty until tomorrow morning – Doctor's orders," Archer finally repeated for Reed's sake. "But I got his permission to meet you briefly for a report of what happened on your mission. It doesn't need to be very detailed. You can write a full report later." He looked at Tucker, as the ranking officer.

Malcolm cast a quick side glance in Trip's direction and swallowed. Trip seemed to shrink. Archer watched the nervous exchange with a puzzled frown: he didn't think he'd said anything… but of course! Trip had ingested Thalassian sweet root. Apparently on human physiology it had rather potent intoxicating effects: Trip could probably remember almost nothing of what had happened on the planet.

"Ah – Lieutenant," Archer said, turning to Reed. "I suppose it's up to you to tell us what happened, since Commander Tucker was under the influence of…"

"Thalassian sweet root," Trip put in levelly.

Archer smiled tautly.

Malcolm straightened in his chair, looking totally ill-at-ease. "Yes, Sir," he said quietly. Next to him, Trip was clearly embarrassed but possibly also somewhat curious.

"We were more than half way there, when we…" Reed trailed. "When I," he amended, "Noticed Commander Tucker was behaving in an uncharacteristic way."

Archer cleared his throat. "Uhm – just _how_ uncharacteristic, Lieutenant?"

Reed winced slightly, his eyes going to Trip again.

Trip shifted on his seat. "Aw, hell, I'm getting' tired of this, already," he finally burst out. "Spit it out, Lieutenant, and let's get this over with!"

* * *

"Ensign, it is out of the question." Hess crossed her arms over her chest and held the gaze of the tall security man without flinching. "I cannot spare any more people. I already sent you two. I have a department to run," she said with quiet determination.

Müller stood tall and at attention. "Yes, Ma'am," he replied. "It's that I thought if some of the other engineers who built the cannon in the first place joined forces with our people, we might have a better chance of putting the weapon back together again in a reasonable amount of time."

Hess's eyes softened. She looked around, then lowering her voice said, "I'm sorry Bernhard. I know you would like to get that done before Lieutenant Reed sees it, but I'm afraid that just won't be possible."

Müller's green eyes didn't shift from hers. "It's not because I'm afraid of him," he said. "I only wanted to spare the Lieutenant this… sight." He opened his arms to encompass the mess around him.

Hess smirked, her eyes showing empathy.

* * *

Trip looked at Malcolm impassively. "That's it?" he asked levelly.

"What exactly do you mean, Commander?" Reed asked, shifting his eyes briefly away before returning them to Trip. It had been more than enough, as far as he was concerned.

"Well, I'm sorry an' all for actin' drunk and screwin' up the mission; but sheesh, Malcolm! The way you were tiptoin' around it I thought I had… I dunno, blown up somethin' or… run around in my birthday suit!"

Malcolm winced, and Archer smiled at the mental image of Trip running around in the buff, singing. "Your report was very en--_lightening_, Lieutenant," he commented, faltering on the adjective.

"Aw, please Capt'n," Trip said, rolling his eyes. "You're startin' to sound just like T'Pol."

Malcolm cleared his throat. "I believe the Captain was looking for another word," he suggested.

Archer sighed. "All right. I _was_ going to say entertaining," he admitted with a grin.

"Well, in that case I beg to dissent, Sir," Malcolm muttered. "Or, rather, my report might have been entertaining, but the actual mission wasn't."

Archer shot him an understanding look. Then he turned to Tucker, his face scrunched up in a funny expression. "But – come on, Trip: George Gershwin? The Beatles? Ella Fitzgerald? _Dean Martin_? Why not one of those catchy tunes by – what's the name of that Starfleet Academy group – the… Galactic Harmonies? Something a little less _ancient_?"

Trip shook his head in disgust. "With all due respect, Capt'n, your taste for music ain't any better than your taste for movies. Those songs are classics!"

Archer chuckled. After a moment he turned serious again. "No ore then?" he asked Reed.

Malcolm pursed his lips. "If the storms clear maybe we can go back…" he suggested.

"We'll see," Archer replied noncommittally. He sat up in his chair and leaned his elbows on the desk, joining the tips of his fingers. "There is something else we need to discuss, Lieutenant," he added grimly, steeling for the confession he knew he had to make.

Reed straightened in his seat. "Captain," he said tautly. "I understand and want to apologise for the fact that the mission went as it did. I take full responsibility."

Archer frowned. "It wasn't your fault if Trip here gobbled down Thalassian-sweet-root pie and got… well, high. I think you handled the situation quite well, Malcolm."

Malcolm's eyes shifted to the floor, then shot up to meet Archer's again. "I… ought to have been more cautious," he said in a deep voice. "When I first recognised the Commander was not himself, and especially when I realised I was developing an allergic reaction, I should have called the mission off."

Archer felt something inside clench. Had the word _cautious_ given him a twinge of guilt? No, no.

"Aw, come on, Malcolm," Trip butted in, his ebullient character bursting through. "Stop beatin' yourself up. Things just went wrong. That's all."

Malcolm shook his head. "But that's just it. I should have taken into account that things _might_ go wrong."

"I think you're being too hard on yourself, Lieutenant," Archer soothed. "You can't really be blamed for trying to complete your mission. After all, you were almost at the mining site. And you weren't well yourself: your allergy might have impaired your judgment." He studied his men. These two could get into the most incredible situations and still come out of them more or less in one piece; undoubtedly because they worked so well as a team.

"You two looked out after each other on that planet," Archer added. "And I am proud of you, even if you didn't bring back any ore." He smiled his fatherly smile.

"I'm glad at least things went well up here, Sir," Reed said, in a slightly more cheerful voice. "Were the Naatians friendly?"

Archer blinked. The moment had come. "Ah, friendly, well, yes, I suppose that all things considered… one could say that."

He stopped to collect his thoughts; before he could add anything else, Malcolm went on, "I imagine you gave them a tour of the ship; and of course didn't let them inside the Armoury…"

"Let them inside the Armoury?" Archer felt his mouth go dry. "Well _I _didn't let them inside the Armoury, no…"

"Not that I thought you had, Captain," Malcolm hurried to reassure him. "And to think I gave you such a hard time," Reed muttered grimly, "Yet I was the one who managed to disregard caution this time."

A knot formed in Archer's gut. "Uh, forget it, Malcolm," he said with a nervous grin. "Nobody's perfect." He had to make the confession now, before he lost the courage. "As a matter of fact…"

Just then the comm. link chirped.

"Archer."

The resonant voice of Malcolm's SIC floated out. "Ensign Müller. Captain, I just wanted to inform you that the port cannon won't be completely re-built for a while yet. Lieutenant Hess sent up a couple of engineers, but we can't even bring up the schematics, you see…"

Archer cringed. He saw Malcolm's brow furrow. "Ah, yes, thank you, Ensign..." he cut in, trying to end the embarrassing communication. Before he could put in another word, though, Müller continued.

"Those Naatians did a pretty thorough job of messing things up. Targeting sensors were totally scrambled – but at least _they_ are almost re-aligned again."

Archer winced. Reed seemed frozen, his jaw visibly clenched, while Trip kept shifting puzzled eyes from him to Malcolm.

"And heaven knows what other bugs we will find in the tactical systems," Müller went on, oblivious of his audience. "What I mean to say, Captain, is that… well, if you wouldn't mind it would be a good idea if Lieutenant Reed were to need at least another full day of rest, just so that we have a chance to get the place in at least a semblance of order."

"Ah, I have a feeling it won't be necessary, Ensign," Archer replied, fixing apologetic eyes on Reed's rather furious ones.

"Sir?" Müller sounded baffled.

Malcolm raised his eyebrows, tilting his head in a silent request, and Archer nodded his assent.

"This is Lieutenant Reed, Ensign. I expect you to give me a full report of the Armoury's status in one hour," he said in quiet but military tones.

There was an audible gasp. "Sir…" Müller croaked out. Archer could _hear _the man's back straightening. "Yes, Sir!"

"Jolly good," Reed replied icily.

Archer withdrew his hand from the comm. link and scratched his hair, smirking. "I was just about to tell you all about it, Malcolm. Honestly. Was looking for the right words… And – believe me – Müller has no fault in what happened. He carried out his duty admirably."

Trip grinned with gusto. "Guess you owe Malcolm an apology too, Capt'n," he said, eyes dancing.

"I do," Archer agreed with a sigh. "I hereby admit that perhaps you're not quite as paranoid as I sometimes like to make you out to be, Lieutenant," he said with a sincere smile.

"Thank you, Sir. That is reassuring to know," Malcolm replied, finally relaxing into a faint smile that even reached his grey eyes. "And as far as apologies go, it appears we all have some to make this time."

"Are ya saying we're all square?" Trip asked Malcolm innocently.

Malcolm looked to be thinking about it. He smirked and pinned the Captain with his gaze. "It depends. Just how serious _is_ the damage to tactical systems?"

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

Epilogue

§ 10 §

Hoshi peered into the serving cabinet, looking for ravioli. Chef always made ravioli on Thursdays, so where _were_ they? She wasn't in the mood for salad, or chicken marsala, or meatloaf. Fish might be good, but… ravioli was really what she felt like having. Nothing like a good dish of pasta…

"Have you lost something, Ensign?"

Hoshi smiled at the unmistakable accent and straightened up to face Malcolm. "Actually, something is missing." Her eyes fell on Malcolm's tray. "That," she said, pointing to the dish of ravioli sitting on it.

"Oh…" Malcolm said, tracking to what her finger was indicating. "I'm afraid I took the last portion. But I'll be more than happy to let you have it. I'll get something else."

Hoshi's jaw fell in embarrassment. "Oh, no," she blurted out. "That's not what I meant. I couldn't allow you to..."

Malcolm chuckled. "Please, Hoshi. I'm not going to wither and die if I don't eat ravioli today."

"Ravioli, anyone?" a voice called from the other side of the serving cabinet, as more servings of pasta were placed inside it.

"I guess we won't need to fight over it." Hoshi grinned happily, bent down and grabbed a plate. "Thank you, Chef. Thursdays just aren't right without your ravioli."

"Ah, Hoshi!" the voice exclaimed. "Just the person I wanted to see. Wait there, don't go away."

A moment later Chef appeared from the galley's door. "Oh, you're with _Lieutenant_ _Reed_," he said, making it sound as if he were a shady character, and eyeing the Armoury Officer in a funny way.

Hoshi cast Malcolm a questioning look and got a shrug in reply. "It's good to see you're feeling well again, Chef," she said, deciding not to enquire. Indeed the man had recovered from his flu with unexpected speed: a mere couple of days and he was back on his feet and on his job. Phlox had beamed, explaining he had successfully tried out a new cure developed by the inter-species medical exchange programme.

"Sì, sì, grazie. But that's not what I want to talk to you about." Chef replied with a dismissive gesture of the hand. "I need to ask you something, Hoshi," he added, mysteriously.

"Me?" Hoshi frowned, bringing a hand to her chest while she balanced the tray on the other.

"Yes, you." Glancing challengingly in Reed's direction, Chef said, "Signor Reed here suggested I may be trying to have a _fling_ with Commander Tucker."

Hoshi snorted loudly then quickly reined in her amusement at the sight of Chef's corrugated expression.

"Does that mean what I think it does?" Chef enquired, addressing Hoshi but keeping piercing eyes on Malcolm.

"Well, I wouldn't know what you think it means," Hoshi began, shifting her gaze to Reed, who was pursing his lips perhaps in the effort to keep a straight face. "But what it does mean is…" she faltered.

"…That you'd want to become romantically involved with him," Malcolm finished, coming to her rescue. "But I was only joking, Chef," he added with a good-humoured chuckle.

Chef stared at him for a moment longer. "I am offended, Lieutenant," he said irritably. "What an idea! Me and Commander Tucker! I mean, he's a nice person but -- the man likes resequenced meatloaf! Twisted the Captain's arm so I would include it in Enterprise's menu! Such poor taste… We would end up arguing all the time."

Hoshi bit her lip and shot an awkward glance at Malcolm.

"You instead, Signor Reed," Chef added mellifluously, waving a hand at the ravioli on Malcolm's plate, "Are definitely more my type…"

Malcolm took a step back. "Ah… I just grabbed the first plate I saw," he sputtered.

They all froze for a moment.

"Only joking, Lieutenant," Chef finally admitted, with a chuckle. "If I could choose someone on board to have a _fling_ with, that would be Miss Hoshi." He bowed, gentlemanly taking her hand and kissing it.

"I'm flattered, Chef," Hoshi said, wondering what exactly the smirk on Malcolm's face meant.

Reed's eyes narrowed. "Well, that's a good thing," he commented. "Because if you wanted to have a fling with me you'd have to wait in line: Trip already made me some advances on that planet," he muttered. "Tried to dance cheek to cheek…"

Hoshi broke into giggles, hiding behind a hand.

"Oh," Chef moaned in despair. "The drugged pie!"

"You weren't the only one who made mistakes that day," Malcolm soothed him. "Besides, your knockout Asparagus Soup was very effective, putting those Naatians out of business before they could take apart the other two phase cannons." He grinned. "I could kiss you for that -- uhm you know, metaphorically," he hurried to add, taking another half a step back.

Chef gave them a gentle push towards an empty table. "Ah, no more joking," he said. "Go and have your meal. I need to get back to the galley." With that he turned and hurried away.

Hoshi slid into her seat and spread her napkin over her legs. "Dancing cheek to cheek?" she asked. "I would _love_ to read your report." Her eyes were twinkling with suppressed mirth.

Malcolm glanced at her from across the table. "Well, you know that's not possible, Ensign." He paused. "But I suppose there would be nothing wrong if I were to comment on Trip's musical taste…" he added naughtily, his eyebrows darting up.

"No, I suppose not," Hoshi agreed nonchalantly. She liked Malcolm in this kind of mood. He was so different from the image of stiff propriety he generally liked to project.

"Perhaps one of these evenings we could…"

"Lieutenant, Ensign."

Hoshi cursed inwardly as she turned to face the man who had interrupted them with such bad timing. Crewman Kim of Malcolm's security team stood hesitantly a few feet away.

"Crewman," Malcolm acknowledged him, fork in mid air. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Actually, Sir, it's Ensign Sato I came looking for," the man said.

Hoshi looked at him in surprise. "Oh…" She gave Kim an encouraging smile.

Kim rubbed his neck nervously. "I hope it is – uhm – ok to ask, but… what does 'Kreuz, Birnbaum und Holler… Holler… _something_' mean?" he finally found the courage to enquire.

Hoshi's mouth fell open. "What?" she blurted out, making Kim pale. "Where have you heard that?"

The young man frowned, eying her worriedly. "Why?"

"Because I haven't got a clue to what it might mean, Ensign. Although it sounds like German – some kind of dialect I think – I'd say it's an expression of surprise."

Malcolm speared a ravioli, grinning. He shook his head. "I have a feeling I might know who said it and when," he commented.

Kim's mouth suddenly curved up too, as he exchanged a knowing glance with his CO.

"I believe the dialect is Bavarian, just like Ensign Müller," Malcolm said, raising his eyebrows eloquently. "Perhaps you ought to take a few lessons from him, Hoshi," he teased. "You can't be proficient in all sorts of Vulcan and Klingon dialects and ignore an Earth idiom, after all."

Hoshi eyed Malcolm, who was still grinning. She smirked mischievously. "Perhaps, instead of taking lessons, I should try and have a _fling _with Müller: I might learn some interesting expressions, besides Kreuz, Birnbaum und Holler-_something_. He's a good-looking man, and we are both Ensigns… wouldn't even break the rules…"

Malcolm's face fell instantly.

"I'd really be curious to know what it means," Kim muttered to himself.

"I'd say it's the equivalent of 'bloody hell'," a deep voice said. Müller took a couple of steps forward and came to stand next to Kim.

"Oh," Hoshi bit her lip and blushed, wondering how long Müller had been within hearing range; then scowled at Malcolm, who looked wholly entertained.

Kim cleared his throat. "Time to get back to work," he said awkwardly. "Lieutenant, Ensigns." He nodded and left, quickly disappearing through the door.

"A very theatrical entrance, Bernhard." Reed acknowledged his second with a tilt of his head.

A faint but knowing smile crossed Müller's face as he straightened his tall frame virtually to attention. He held out a padd. "Sorry to interrupt you, Sir. But I thought you would like to have an update of our repair work."

Malcolm took the padd. and gave it his full attention for a few moments. "Good to see we'll finally have the port cannon back online," he eventually said, raising his eyes. "Well done."

"Thank you, Sir."

"However, Ensign," Malcolm added, changing to his Lieutenant tone, "I must tell you that I do not approve of your use of swearwords on duty," he said gravely.

Müller swallowed. "I apologise, Sir. I…"

"I'm not finished," Reed interrupted him brusquely. There was a moment of tense silence. Müller stood so still that Hoshi found herself studying him closely for any signs of breathing. She felt bad for the man. Malcolm could be inflexible, when he wanted.

Reed narrowed his eyes. "The next time you feel the urge to utter profanities," he said coldly, "I recommend… you use some we can all understand, dammit."

Hoshi giggled softly. Müller's green eyes were crossed by a glint of humour. "Aye, Sir," he replied, baring teeth that could compete with Travis's.

Waving his fork at the ravioli remaining on his plate, Malcolm said, "Give me another ten minutes and I'll join you in the Armoury to run a check on that cannon."

"Aye, Sir." Reed's SIC made as if to leave, then stopped and added, turning serious again, "Not that I make a habit of using foul language, Lieutenant. I was simply…"

Reed held up a hand, stopping him. "Believe me, Bernhard: whatever that German curse means, it would pale in comparison to what I'd have said in your place." He shook his head as if to clear it from some terrible mental image. "Maybe it's better the Commander and I were delayed," he said grimly.

Müller smirked; then nodded and left, and Hoshi turned to Malcolm. "I thought you were serious, giving him that dressing down," she said, putting down her own fork.

Malcolm gave a breathy laugh. "Well, that was the whole point, wasn't it?" he said. His grey eyes were warm and deep today, and Hoshi was suddenly disappointed to see them shift away from her face to focus somewhere else. She turned to see what had caught his attention and saw Commander Tucker getting himself a drink at the dispenser.

"Well, look who's here," Reed muttered under his breath. "Our resident minstrel."

Trip put his drink on a tray, grabbed a dish of something and headed towards them, a trademark Tucker grin plastered on his face.

"Minstrel?" Hoshi asked, her lips curving upwards.

"Ah, forget I ever said anything, Hoshi," Malcolm hurried to say, seeing Trip approach.

"What are you two up to?" the Engineer asked, sliding into a seat near him. "I'm pretty sure I just saw Müller walk away from this table chucklin'."

"I was telling him about our mission," Malcolm teased.

Trip shot him a challenging look. "Hey, only T'Pol and the Capt'n have a right to know all the details about it," he said in mock outrage. "Besides, none of it was my fault, I was drugged."

"It wasn't really Chef's fault," Hoshi said, feeling she had to take Chef's defence. "He was coming down with the flu."

"Well, it certainly wasn't _my_ fault," Malcolm butted in.

"What's the crime anyway?" Hoshi asked innocently.

Trip raised his eyebrows. "Ah, no, Hosh, darlin'. Sorry, but – as I said – only the Capt'n and T'Pol…"

"What about _your_ little misadventure," Malcolm enquired, turning to the young linguist. "Whose fault was it?"

"Well, it wasn't the Captain's," Hoshi answered straightaway. "Maybe it was my fault. I should have picked up the Naatians' 'language' faster," she said grimly.

"Oh, come on, Hoshi," Malcolm comforted her. "From what I read of the Captain's report you were doing fine until Chef's Ominous Omelettes were brought in."

Hoshi's brow knitted in thought. "Chef couldn't know the Naatians felt threatened by the colour yellow."

They all looked at each other in silence for a moment then burst out together, "T'Pol?"

The thought that T'Pol could be at fault was so absurd that Hoshi broke into laughter, triggering a couple of snorts from her companions.

"But no, no," she hurried to add, shaking her head as she regained her composure. "It wasn't her fault the matrix translated 'yell' for 'yellow'."

Trip sighed. "Look, let's forget about it and move on, ok? It was nobody's fault, just one of those days, I guess."

"Well, I hope we don't have too many," Malcolm muttered.

Just then Chef appeared at the door of the galley, a plate high in the air, and Malcolm shot Trip a wide-eyed look. "Good grief, Trip. This is getting to be ridiculous! You didn't ask for more pie, did you?"

Trip turned in alarm to see Chef approach their table. "Nope. But I hope this time Chef made it right," he murmured.

"Don't tell _me_," Malcolm ground out.

Chef floated towards their table with the elegance of a dancer, and lowered the plate in front of Reed. On it sat a big slice of pineapple cake.

_Just what Malcolm likes_, Hoshi thought, noticing the Armoury Officer's discomfort at the sudden attention.

"Uhm, thank you, Chef," Reed mumbled self-consciously.

"Good. At least now ya won't say I'm Chef's favourite any more," Trip drawled.

Chef nodded firmly. "Exactly."

Malcolm smiled tautly and studied the cake closely, prodding it with his fork. "You _did_ put your Thalassian sweet root jar well away from your sugar one after the other day, didn't you?" he asked meaningfully.

"Of course, Lieutenant," Chef huffed, rolling his eyes. "This is the real thing. Go ahead, taste it."

Malcolm put a tentative forkful in his mouth. "Uh, delicious," he mumbled around it.

"Don't worry," Chef beamed, "I told Manetti to get rid of the other pineapple cake." He elbowed Trip. "You know, I still had a big piece left from when I made those ration packs."

Malcolm and Trip exchanged a bewildered look.

"Ya mean to tell me that the pineapple cake we had on board that day…" Trip left the rest of the question unspoken. His brain was too busy figuring out what might have happened if Malcolm had actually accepted the cake he had offered him. "God!"

Malcolm shuddered. "Be grateful I'm not like you, Trip: needing to wallow in sugar." He shoved, nonetheless, another forkful of cake in his mouth.

"May I join the party?" a voice asked. "As you were," Archer hurried to add, approaching the group. Chef looked a bit flustered, so Archer put a hand on his shoulder. "Glad you're back, Chef," he said, squeezing gently. "Nothing personal, but Manetti always manages to overcook his pasta."

Chef relaxed into a smile. "The kid is not really Italian," he said with a shrug. "Born out of the old country."

Archer chuckled. "So, what are you celebrating?"

"I made pineapple cake and brought the Lieutenant a slice," Chef said. "But now, since you're all here, I'll bring out the rest," he said, making for the galley.

"Good idea," Malcolm called after him, smiling warmly as he put the last forkful of cake in his mouth.

"Too bad ya didn't let us stay around till the weather cleared, Capt'n," Trip complained. "Who knows now when we'll get another chance to get some platinum."

"It would have delayed our mission for too long, Trip," Archer said apologetically. "T'Pol claims the storms will last for at least another week."

Trip smirked. "Yeah. Still…"

"I told T'Pol to be on the look-out for some other planet rich in the ore," Archer said. "We'll come across one, sooner or later."

Hoshi patted Trip's shoulder. "Don't worry, Commander," she said. "Our little ship is sturdy. I doubt you'll need to get spare parts any time soon."

"Right you are, Hoshi," Malcolm butted in cheerfully. He got up from his seat, chuckling. "Where's the rest of that cake, Chef?" he shouted in the direction of the galley.

"Malcolm?" Trip said, pulling his sleeve. He exchanged a look with the others.

Malcolm turned to Trip, falling back heavily on his chair. "Besides, Commander," he slurred – _slurred_?

"Che seraaaaa seraaaa, whatever will beeee will beeee… the future's not ours to seeeee …"

"Manetti!" An angry voice floated out of the galley. "Which cake did you get rid of?"

THE END

I suppose at this point I can reveal what my challenge consisted in: - One of the characters had to say "This is not my day" – in Italian. - Another character had to utter the weird and untranslatable German-Bavarian swear "Kreuz, Birnbaum und Hollerstauden". - Trip was to sing "Summertime". - And last but not least Malcolm had to get hurt in some way (what else is new?)


End file.
